


VorChaos Theory

by theDah



Category: Vorkosigan Saga - Lois McMaster Bujold
Genre: Cetagandan plots, Crack! -fic treated seriously, F/M, Gen, Set post "Mirror Dance" but before the events of "Memory", Spies & Secret Agents, Time Period: Reign of Gregor Vorbarra
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-01
Updated: 2016-06-30
Packaged: 2018-01-07 01:04:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 34,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1113675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theDah/pseuds/theDah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a Cetagandan plot goes awry, three brave men will be suddenly forced to face their personal horrors, jealous dreams and even the consequences of having kept secrets. In the middle of the mess, one old secret agent will be left to figure out truths from lies and how to keep Barrayar standing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. When the cat's away, the rats will play

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Reflections](https://archiveofourown.org/works/521450) by [Philomytha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Philomytha/pseuds/Philomytha). 



> I got suddenly attacked couple days ago by a plot bunny and started typing this up. Unfortunately my tentative plans for a very short one-shot got derailed fast by the plot's serious snowballing. At that point I gave up on resisting, and sent what I got to my Beta - Chiera - who found the premise darkly hilarious. 
> 
> I don't know what happened or why it happened, but I am still giggling madly and writing. 
> 
> Let's see what happens. 
> 
> I would like to thank Chiera for helping me out with beta-reading and correcting my dyslexic mishaps. Also, I would like to acknowledge that partly this story got it's inspiration from the wonderfully twisted works of Tel, and brief conversation with Philomytha through review of her story "Reflections".

#    
 

 

# Chapter 1. When the cat's away, the rats will play

 

”Serve the right drink to the right person, it’s absolutely essential. Surely even you, Har, can manage it. Hah! What a pretentious son of a whore.” A tall, but very inconspicuous looking man dressed in imperial catering staff’s uniform muttered to himself as he strode down the quiet corridor carrying an empty tray under his arm and three small pellets in his left pocket. To say that he was irritated with his orders would be a severe understatement, but he knew his duty and he would fulfill this mission and would gain recognition to increase his clan’s esteem. Of course, if opportunity to slight his superior would arise…

He sighed wistfully. Not likely, not on this mission. That damn bastard had a good plan, even he could admit it.

Some light was visible from the end of the corridor, and bustling voices trickled to his ear. An Impsec guard with ensign’s tabs straightened from his slight crouch and raised his scanner lightly. Har nodded and obediently allowed the man to do his duty. Not that the guard was very rigorous about it, after all, all the catering staff on Emperor’s spring ball were already cleared and loaned from imperial security too.

“Sergeant Kaverin, Impsec?” The guard questioned. “Others arrived a bit earlier, but you are still on time.”

“That’s right,” Har replied and turned around for the scanner, then cracked a grin; “On nights like these I do wonder why I spent all that time and effort in Vorbarr Sultana’s military college wishing for glorious career just to end up as a waiter… but then I remember that there are worse duties, such as guarding the kitchen’s doorway for the night shift.”

The guard barked an appreciative laugh and grinned in return, “At least I won’t have to watch the Vor lordlings get drunk as skunks and then discreetly carry them to sober off.”

Suddenly the scanner blinked slightly orange, then back at green. “What’s that in your left pocket?”

“Painkillers. I got a killer headache going earlier, and took few with me.” Har said calmly, and showed the three white pills to the guard. They were the standard brand, very bland and unassuming.

The guard frowned, fiddled the device and muttered in sotto voce, _“Huh... non-regulation, but the profile mentions migraines…”_

Har made a slight show of twisting his lips in grimace, and the guard glanced up, sighed in sympathy; “All right, I won’t confiscate them, but take the meds before going in to the main ballroom. There cannot be anything non-regulation within a hundred feet of the Emperor.”

“Thanks,” Har muttered with a defeated sigh. 

The guard smiled a bit, and stepped to the side and motioning Har to go inside, muttering apologetically; “Sorry, but I don’t made the regs and you know how paranoid Illyan’s about this stuff.”

“Yeah, yeah. I know.”

With an absent salute to the guard, Har slipped in to the bustling kitchen. Needless to say, it was full of people carrying things, hurried cooks and tantalizing smells flowing to his nostrils. Wonderful canapés and hors d'oeuvres filled the trays, and his mouth watered despite himself. None of this was for the lowly proles’ consumption, of course.

Sighing regretfully, Har slipped away from the tempting trays to fetch his own charge – the champagne.

With an experienced hold he secured the tray with dozen glasses, and stepped into the line and held the tray steady when the expensive vintage was poured. Then they were off to the servants’ exit. Discreetly Har settled to be the last waiter in line and it didn’t take much cunning to slip his hand to his pocket, take the pills in hand and feel the slight indention at the sides of pellets for the differentiation signs… and drop the them into three different drinks to dissolve like they had never been there.

All he knew was this; the pellet with one linear indentation should be handed to Emperor Gregor Vorbarra. The one with two dots was to go to one lieutenant Miles Vorkosigan and the last unmarked one to the lieutenant Ivan Vorpatril.

That’s all.

Officially, he shouldn’t know what the pellets were for, but it wasn’t a large stretch of imagination to assume they were some kind of a poison. Especially considering how that bastard son of a whore had been acting condescendingly over Har’s capabilities and had repeated time after another that he had to slip the correct pellet to the correct person.

Hmmph.

He would show them all what ghem-lieutenant Har was capable of. After he had the assassination of Barrayar’s Emperor under his belt, he would surely be rewarded handsomely, maybe even be granted a promotion or even a haut bride…

However, he had been puzzled why the last two names were even remotely important. Sure, he had been at this deep cover post long enough to recognize the significance of the High Vor names Vorkosigan and Vorpatril, but assassinating the two young, insignificant lieutenants made little sense on the surface – but then, after hearing a _curious_ succession theory by chance, Har had seen the brilliance of the plot. With this assassination, the governance of Barrayar would crumble into chaos and the most likely one to take the reins by the right of heritage would be old regent and the man was old, frail… everyone could see it.

Har smiled to himself, seeing the scenario to pan out; the Empire of Barrayar would be swept into civil war, getting weakened and then… ripe for conquest. And the one person in critical position for the plan’s success was him. This plot was truly the sweetest reward for the thankless and humiliating duties he had been performing for years in this backwater louse nest.

As the music from the ballroom became clearer and they were closing in, Har pulled himself away from the pleasant daydreams. It hadn’t been but a two minutes’ walk and travel by the servants’ lift tube from the kitchens, just enough for the champagne to settle into its best form. Only the finest for cream of the Empire…

A brief security scan at the door once more, scanner staying green all the way through and then they were there, mingling and offering drinks. The three special glasses he kept it the middle of the tray, close to his chest so to speak – all the while scanning the crowd for his targets. The first one he found easily, the distinctive form of Lieutenant Vorkosigan was hunched, resting near the wall.

Har swallowed his distaste for the dwarfs’ physical peculiarities and how nearly skeletally thin the man was, still, even half a year after his return to duty. The Impsec gossip circles were full of speculation on Illyan’s pet courier, and seeing the man in person for the first time, Har wondered maybe there was some truth on the theory of a deadly ailment.

_Not that it mattered._

Har pasted a friendly smile on his face, subtly moved the glass slightly away from others for easy picking. Just a little visual trick, so that subconsciously the target would take the correct glass.

“Champagne, sir?” He murmured, and lowered the tray slightly for the short man’s convenience.

“Thank you.” The Vorkosigan murmured, and took the right glass, raising it to his lips.

Har smiled and turned away, quickly, so that a flash of triumph wouldn’t be seen in his eyes. _He did it!_ _Only two more to go and he would finally show to that son of a whore…_

* * *

 

“Yet, is that truly the only choice available? Perhaps an esteemed and fair lady such as you has an opinion?”

A small, coquettish smile rose to his conversation partner’s fine red painted lips and her perfectly aligned teeth flashed. “Perhaps. And my lord Vorpatril, I find that we have finally come acquainted well enough for you to call me Isabell.”

A deep satisfaction bloomed in Ivan Vorpatril’s chest and a smile lit up his handsome face. _Yes!_ He cheered silently; Lady Vorob’yev was finally, finally after three years of careful handling warming up to him. That smile on her lips, that look in her eyes - all very good signs. So, he pitched his voice to charming warmth, full of intimate promises and answered, “I will be pleased to do so - and if it suits you, my fair lady, please call me Ivan.”

 She raised her ornamental fan and covered her sweet smile with it, a demure gesture – but also an act of a controlled seduction.

Lady Vorob’yev truly was a rare treasure; a beautiful heiress of the Vorob’yev district’s line and thus, her personal assets were significant. Even more remarkably, she was rumored to have a active interest, some would even say - a career – with the family’s comsole network company, which was responsible for covering almost all of the northern continent’s networks. On top of that, she was a true beauty, with the bluest blood and impeccable manners, but at the same time there was a touch of exoticness in her, as she had travelled far and wide with her esteemed ambassador uncle. And most importantly – she was the most coveted of unattached ladies of Ivan’s generation. Her would-be suitors numbered in hundreds, and she had been careful to refuse _every single one of them_. 

Gaining her favor and warming her bed would be the achievement of a lifetime and Ivan had been circling after her for years. Not that he was interested in marriage, she wasn’t either, and it was _that_ knowledge that had finally cemented this careful thawing in their formerly rigid relationship.   

And there was this knowledge that if he could seduce her while avoiding the ties of matrimony, it would be the best form of payback to his lady mother’s constant and increasingly hardening tactics of getting him married.

Lady Vorob’yev’s bright and rare green eyes glinted, only hinting at the sharp mind hiding behind them and she murmured; “I shall do so. If it would so please you, I would be interested to continue this conversation tomorrow evening on a more sedate location, perhaps in a suitable dining establishment?”

“Of course, fair lady. I am at your service. Would at eight, tomorrow evening in the Galereya suit?” He suggested lightly, managing only just to convey a pleased interest instead the victorious triumph that was flooding his veins.

The Galereya was one of the most esteemed restaurants in the capital, known as expensive, discreet and most importantly – it’s waiting list was _legendary._ However, Ivan knew the majordomo and could manage to arrange a reservation for table even in this tight schedule.

Her politely raised brow and appreciative tilt of her lips told that she was suitably impressed.

Shortly thereafter, she withdrew with promising murmurs and Ivan was left to control his wildly pumping heart in solitude. Well, as much one could call an elegant ballroom, full of the Empire’s aristocracy celebrating the beginning of spring season, solitude.

_I did it. Finally…_

Surely the slight weakening in his knees and raging pulse was nothing to be ashamed of?  

“I need a drink.” He muttered. A dose good alcohol would surely calm these flutters…

Thankfully, a tall inconspicuous servant was walking close by him, with a tray half full of champagne glasses. Grabbing one at random, he ignored the servant’s alarmed protest and started to the side of the room where his most troublesome cousin was looking morose and a way too sickly, still, even months after the little git’s nearly miraculous resurrection.

Ivan frowned in mid of a tiny sip, and made a spur of a moment’s decision.

Miles’s tired crouch, waxy paleness and those deep lines etched on his face… all were just a surface causes for concern. Most worryingly, Miles was frighteningly _still_.

Time for some cousinly intervention and perhaps even for suitable ribbing, after all – he, “Ivan the Idiot” had managed to secure a date with the Empire’s most wanted lady.

A feat worth celebrating - and gloating - over.

And the fact was that nothing turned Miles’s mood away from his own persistent troubles as well as some good old jealousy. Perhaps it was little bit petty of Ivan, but then again… why should he be ashamed of his talents? Miles never shirked from parading _his_ achievements with the Dendarii mercenaries and hinting all those grand adventures… all the while knowing that Ivan had never been granted even a chance for ship duty, not even when he had most desperately wanted it as a young man.

So with an anticipatory grin, the still full glass of champagne forgotten, he called cheerfully from a few steps too far away; “Why so gloomy, Coz?”

 

* * *

 

“…ah, you cannot…” Har started desperately as that blithering Vor bastard Vorpatril grabbed a wrong glass from his tray. What made it even worse, it was that it was _the glass_ the idiot took and then proceeded to march away never once looking back.

‘The correct pill must go to the correct person.’ The bastard son of a whore had repeated to him time after another… and now, he had left only one target without the poison, the Emperor himself, and the dose was Vorpatril’s.

_It was a disaster!_

And there was no way he could chase after the Vor lieutenant and beg him to exchange the drink and then slip in unnoticeable to the Emperor. Vorbarra was surely the most well-guarded of all his targets and if he drew attention to himself, the most important target would be left without a dose.

He couldn’t risk that.

_In case of unexpected difficulties, the only way was forward._

Har swallowed and looked after the retreating back of Vorpatril. The Vor lieutenant was tall and most heavily muscled of all his targets, but not really all that different from the Emperor. Even at a glance, their body mass would amount to near the same and wasn’t that the most important thing with drug doses? So surely he could still manage to complete his mission?

He had to, there was no other choice – and he couldn’t stand there much longer, already he was gathering attention. No, he had to go forward and finish the mission before the Champagne was too stale and no one would drink it… Har exhaled, and controlled his expression to a pleasantly distant smile and started towards the balconies where Emperor was conversing with some older aristocrats.

Thankfully, the Emperor’s glass was nearly empty so it was perfectly acceptable for Har to offer another one.

It took some maneuvering, but finally when his tray had only three glasses left, he managed to move the tainted champagne to the side and politely offer the drink. Emperor Gregor Vorbarra took it without a fuss and gave his old one to the tray, and turned back to listen attentively to the disgustingly boring spiel that the nearly mummified old Vor lord was spouting at him.

For the briefest of moments, Har couldn’t help but to pity the Barrayar’s Emperor. He knew exactly the tone of voice the crusty old dragon was using, after all, Har’s own clan elders had similar personage’s intent on controlling the “disappointing generation from doing mistakes”.

Gregor Vorbarra didn’t seem to enjoy the lecture either, and took a deep sip of the champagne – draining half of it in one go.  Then the Emperor grimaced, and Har had a moment’s terror that the man had detected the poison…

Then Emperor said gravely; “I apologize, Count Vormoncrief, but I cannot say more concerning the coming vote. I am sure that we will have a chance to discuss the subject at length at the Council of Counts.” And then he drained the rest of the glass and added it, too, to Har’s tray and withdrew.

From the expression of Vormoncrief, the old Count was almost offended at the Emperor’s curtness and even the few other surrounding aristocrats had considering frowns of their brows.

Har’s earlier panic had almost fully dissolved and he glanced at the tray, grounding himself to his duty and away from the perplexing exchange. As he left to the servant’s door to make his escape, he could hear another old lord to remark; “You pushed too far, Count Vormoncrief. The Emperor cannot take a stance in a critical matter like this one so openly.”

“Not usually… but the Emperor’s choice will matter much in this coming vote. It has been prepared for years, and would have never gone through in the Aral Vorkosigan’s day… but perhaps the Emperor will take a stance of his own, so to say, in this matter.”

 

* * *

 

Miles hadn’t even touched his glass for more than the polite tiny sip. He really wasn’t interested in getting drunk at this event and since the cryofreeze, he had been dangerously underweight. Even after his family’s persistent attempts and the months he had been back with the Dendarii, he hadn’t quite managed to gain back all the weight he had lost. So, he had decided to err on the side of caution on this matter as he didn’t quite know his tolerance anymore. And then there was the matter of those few mysterious seizures. Always abrupt, always short… but he didn’t have a faintest idea what to do about them. His personal Medtech at Dendarii wasn’t any wiser than him about them, but had suggested him to stay away from any harmful substances in the meanwhile.

Not that it was a difficult thing to do as he wasn’t particularly fond of spring champagne to begin with.

He was just anxious to get away. Away from Barrayar, away from all the concerned looks, sneering looks, whispering glances… away from this constricting identity as a would-be-courier who was only in the service at the benevolence of his powerful relatives and well applied nepotism. Away from the thoughtful glances of Simon Illyan.

There was something going on with his boss, and Miles Vorkosigan knew it.

Or maybe it was just the solid knowledge and guilt that for the first time in his life, he _was_ actively lying to the man who remembered everything. Illyan and Vorkosigans had an honor bond forged between them… and deep down, Miles knew that he was trampling on it and had been _for months._ Ever since the fateful day when the Doctor at ImpMill had performed the final checkup and asked if there was anything more ailing him, and he had paused for a brief moment and said decisively; “No.”

He was rudely pulled from his morose thoughts when a cheerful voice called out loud; “Why so gloomy, Coz?”

Miles drew a hissing breath, and closed his eyes briefly, not needing to look to know who it was. It was all too clear from the voice and that form of address, no one else would have dared. To make everything worse, Ivan was disgustingly cheerful – just radiating a need for good gloating.

“Managed to charm a Vor bud out on her first season? Congratulations, but don’t you feel even slightly disgusting pawing at a girl half your age? Or perhaps they are the only ones you can still manage to get?” Miles replied scathingly, bitter despite himself.

Lately Quinn, too, had been giving him those concerned looks, and there had been something ill brewing between them. He had even avoided voicing his persistent wish for her hand. Why was he even bothering anymore? They had been dating for five years and during that time, he had begged her to become lady Vorkosigan consistently few times a year. But now, how long it had been since he had last asked? _Just before his death and the resultant cryofreeze…_

Maybe that was the cause for this friction between them?

Hopefully. _That_ he could easily solve…

“No, no. Nothing you say can manage to ruin my good mood right now, Coz, so don’t even try.” Ivan declared firmly and set his full glass to the side table right next to Miles’s.

“Oh? Why are you so sure?” Miles asked, a roaring curiosity raising its ugly head. Usually Ivan would have been derailed already, but that look… what had the idiot managed to do?

“Ask me nicely and I might tell you. After all, it’s something big.” Ivan declared, smugness just oozing from him.

Weighing pros and cons fast in his mind, Miles hesitated for a moment. On one hand he knew that anything that made Ivan that smug and drove his cousin to gloat _at him,_ of all people, would be something that would spark their never ending and oddly morphed friendlyish rivalry and most likely annoy him, but on the other hand… if he didn’t hear it from Ivan, he would hear it later from some other source. And if it was something important, knowing it early would be better…

…and truly, nothing Ivan said would cause his mood to deteriorate further. Of that he was deadly certain.

So, despite knowing better, the words left his tongue; “What is it?”

And Ivan grinned, “I will be going on a date with Isabelle Vorob’yev tomorrow.”

Miles frowned… just where was that name familiar. He wasn’t exactly up to date with the Vor dating scene at the moment, hadn’t been in years, really, and Ivan _knew_ that. His cousin was occasionally very pointed in his suggestions that Miles should attempt to socialize more during the ground leaves. So, if Ivan though he should know the name without further introduction, _he really should._

_Goddamn cryofreeze and the resulting amnesia._

Desperately buying more time and trying to hide the empty spot in his memories that Ivan had managed to find so easily, Miles muttered aloud what he did knew; “Vorob’yev? Some relation to our Cetagandan Ambassador in Eta Ceta?”

“Yes, actually. His brother’s only daughter.” Ivan said, and frowned…

_Damn that concerned look._ If anything, Miles hated that look. _He was fine, perfectly fine and able. These blank spots would go away, they would go away with time… he even noticed them very rarely anymore._

And then suddenly, it all came together; Vorob’yev – the district’s High Vor family, the current Count’s brother was the ambassador, so that meant that this Isabella Vorob’yev was the lady Isabella Vorrob’yev – the rich, the beautiful, the famous and highly coveted after heiress of the Vorob’yev’s main inheritance line that even Miles had been eyeing with a wistful appreciation since he had been a young man at the scene, before the Academy, the Dendarii and the rest…

“You managed to get _the ice princess_ to accept a date, from you!?” Miles yelped, eyes wide and utterly stunned.

Ivan’s pleased smile was so disgustingly happy, and Miles’s surprise and resulting flash of utter jealousy so deep, the Miles’s couldn’t even hear the rest of the explanation - but rather he blindly took a glass of champagne from the table and drained it in one go.

“Hey, don’t be like that Coz, surely you can be happy for my success?” Ivan asked lightly, but there was a sliver of hurt in his eyes.

However, Miles was beyond caring at this point, because suddenly he remembered acutely, just why he hadn’t been intending to drink his champagne – the wave of nausea and dizziness swept over him and he leaned against the wall to steady himself.

His annoying cousin’s frown became distinct and Ivan took a hold of his shoulder, steadying him further.

Miles waited the nausea to pass of and turned to look aside, slight embarrassed flush coloring his cheeks and he mumbled; “I think I better go and sleep this off.”

Ivan inhaled deeply, and tightened his hold on Miles’s shoulder for a moment and then let go. “All right… all right. Just call Pym and…”

“Yes, mother.” Miles replied snidely and added dryly, “Since when have you turned into a mother hen?”

Ivan’s answering blush told everything he needed to know, and his cousin clearly tried to find something other to do as he took the remaining champagne glass from the table and drained it.

There was nothing more to say between them, and Miles pressed his wrist com and murmured clear instructions to it, alerting his Armsman to bring out his ground car out front so he could go home to sulk alone.

 

* * *

 

It was late after midnight, the spring ball had run its course and Har had successfully managed to complete his shift without incurring suspicion. The Emperor had retired early, as had Lieutenant Vorkosigan… of his targets, only lieutenant Vorpatril had stayed long enough not to raise some comments. Late enough that Har was beginning to doubt if the target had ingested the dose at all…

Surely no one who had been poisoned could look so damn cheerful and healthy the whole evening?

Well, if so… it wasn’t a tremendous loss, Har reasoned. Vorpatril was the least important of the targets by any stretch of imagination and two out of three wasn’t bad, certainly not enough to tarnish the success of the mission.

So feeling the satisfaction of a job well done and imagining the wonderful rewards this would gain him back at home, Har made his way to the meeting spot through the Vorbarr Sultana’s streets. Every now and then, he discreetly checked that no one was following him and double backed his route carefully after a drunk or two had seen him – no matter his resented superior’s opinion, Har _was_ a professional.

At a boring block of flats, he pressed the buzzer and murmured the right pass phrase. A loud beep sounded out and the hair at the back of his neck stood up in response to its suddenness. Then a click and the front door unlocked and Har let himself in. Three stores up by the lift tube, some walking by the uninspiring neutral colored hallways and knocking in the correct pattern and finally Har was face to face with the man he most hated in Barrayar – ghem-captain Tabor.

Or as he was known now, after his embarrassing need for extensive facial mods and a new identity; Lev Noskov, the underpaid Human Relations Administrator working at Vorbarr Sultana’s local comsole network provider. No matter his past usefulness and widely ranging experience in the intelligence field, for Har, the man was a first class bastard.

“Don’t stand there like an idiot.”

“Yes, sir.” Har muttered in sotto voce and slipped inside the flat. It was a modest apartment, not remarkable in any way but the barely showing form of sonic baffler’s distinct casing fastened under the desk and slightly too high tech communication set on top of it… and a very odd open briefcase containing a complex device with a screen showing, of all things, diagrams of three brains?

“Report.”

For a second Har hesitated. Should he tell of the complications? No matter how little it would end up mattering, the bastard would get on his case. Perhaps it wouldn’t be necessary…

“The mission was a success. I successfully managed to slip in the pills to the targets. There was a slight problem with my entrance at the kitchen. The security scanner detected something off with the pellets, but I was able to cover it and explain them as pain medication as we planned in contingency plan b for entrance…” As he went over the evening’s happenings, he could see his superior’s tense form beginning to relax. Har added all the little details and noteworthy observations of conversations he had been privy to, but tactically left out the fact that Vorpatril and Emperor had both ended up with the wrong pill.

At the end of report, Tabor was looking very nearly pleased at him and said; “I cannot believe that I am saying this, but good work. It was a difficult mission but with this success I do not hesitate to recommend you for promotion.”

The congratulatory salute felt like the sweetest honey. For some reason, gaining the approval of the Bastard did matter a great deal to Har.

Then the Bastard nodded at him, and turned to the odd device in the open briefcase. With a slight touch he activated it and suddenly the diagrams of the screen flooded with red and the device started to beep angrily.

“What in the seventh hells, how can this be… what the hell is happening?” The Bastard muttered and fiddled with the device and started to mutter under voice; “….the correct nanochip went to right target, and it has had long enough for the bloodstream to have transported the nodes to the correct position for interlocking with transmitter we planted in to the target’s earlier…”

Utterly shocked, Har had a sinking feeling that he had made a terrible mistake. He swallowed, and then with a small hesitant voice he asked; “It wasn’t poison, was it?”

The bastard son of a whore ghem-captain Tabor turned at it and directed his most loathing and assessing stare at Har, “Poison?! What the hell are you talking about?”

Har’s satisfaction at his success shriveled and died, and he whispered; “The mission to assassinate the Emperor and his bloodline to cause civil war on Barrayar and thus to prepare them for an easy conquest, sir.”

“Assassinate! Civil War! Conquest! Where in the seventh hell you drew that from! No. This was to be intelligence coup of a lifetime, to successfully plant an experimental device that allows us to track and spy the innermost secrets of the Barrayar’s Emperor and both of his suspected heirs.”

 With every word that Tabor spat right at him, face red with rage, Har began to finally connect the dots and see where exactly had things gone so wrong-

_‘The right pill to the right target, remember it…’_

Oh shit.

There was simply no way he could survive this, Har realized.

And suddenly the loud beeping racket that the suitcase device had been tooting ended, and both of the Cetagandan agents turned to stare at it, just in time to see the red warning color to flee the brain diagrams on the screen like it had never been there. Tabor inhaled sharply and made his way to the device and fiddled with it; “…can’t believe it, what the hell? And now it is working just like it was supposed to?”

Har came over and looked at it over the Bastard’s shoulder. He had never seen such a gadget, but it did seem to have settled in. Under the diagrams there was a name of the target, and a fast printout of truncated sentences and odd phases running and constantly converted to encrypted mode. Under that was transmission bar indicating data forwarding? “It’s sending information?”

“Yes, the nanochip has successfully connected with the transmitter, and it now sends the information to this unit. I will forward it to our next outpost, and from there it will be saved and sent all the way to Eta Ceta for analysis. It taps into the target’s brain and allows us to spy on their very thoughts. A biotechnological solution to telepathy, so to speak.”

“But that’s… that will change the whole intelligence field.” Har muttered incredulously, utterly floored. The possibilities of that revelation…

But how come it was now suddenly working if the “nanochips” had went to the wrong targets?

And more importantly, was there any way Har could manage to save his skin and manage to keep the extent of his screw up a secret?

 

* * *

 

To say that Captain Simon Illyan had had a stressful evening would be a severe understatement. Even in the normal course of things, the Emperor’s spring ball opened the Vor socialite season and as such was an exercise in patience. For some reason, the younger aristocrats had consistently picked that particular ball to conduct all their ridiculous and mischievous acts for the whole time he had been the Chief of Imperial Security.

If there was a saving grace in this whole mess Illyan had had been handed to, it was that he had been able to pass the duty of supervising the security of the event to Colonel Lord Vortala the Younger, his understudy in the Residence security operations.

The whole episode had begun when earlier that evening he had received urgent report from Galactic Operations that indicated a high probability of increased Cetagandan activity. Thankfully, nothing in the information he had received pointed towards violence, but rather a major intelligence operation. Report had told that an Illyrican rising bioscience genius had been relocated to Cetaganda to refine his groundbreaking nanochip transmission device that could be potentially unobtrusively planted in the target’s brain and could from there forward information.

It was a worrying development, and the mere existence of such technology would change the whole counter-intelligence field in major way. However, his agent had managed to find out that the device was still experimental, hideously expensive and most importantly - not cost effective as the nanochips didn’t yet handle the stress of transmission for long periods. The longest test phase according to the report had lasted only a month, and unless a miraculous solution arrived, it duration couldn’t be increased enough to support a plot targeted to mass production.

Illyan had been going over the reports and handling the situation from his office the whole evening, and the implications had shaken him enough to keep him awake late. At three am there didn’t seem to be enough reason for him to retire to his own apartment, so he had tried to catch some sleep in the headquarters’ emergency bed for some time. However, after tossing and turning for an hour in the cot, he had finally given up on the possibility of sleep and started to read through the spring ball’s reports just to give himself something productive to do.

It was then that he had encountered a curious report of brief alarm in one of the Residence kitchen’s entrances’ security scanners. The report indicated a possibility of malfunction, because after checking it, the guard had concluded that the scanner had set an alarm over three pain killers, of all things.

The thing which raised his attention was that the security scanners didn’t detect organic mass. It was secret information, only available in the very highest security clearance of the Empire – the commander’s inside Impsec and the Emperor’s eyes only.

So, that concluded that for the scanners to react there had been something inorganic, non-regulation in the pills. Suspicious. Illyan frowned, and checked the profiles of the guard and the Sergeant with the pills, Sergeant Kaverin, Impsec – graduated from Vorbarr Sultana Military College four years ago, application by preference to Imperial Security, very nondescript service record and a note of having been complaining about migraines.

Illyan crosschecked the records in ImpMil, the doctor had subscribed standard pain killers instead of migraine medication, and had noted that the patient’s headache was stress related.

Stress related?

There was something odd with the Sergeant Kaverin’s profile. It was bland, even… too bland. He couldn’t say anything of the person based on it, and usually in these course of things a person would achieve enough that a skilled eye could evaluate the person by merely checking the profiles.

Something wasn’t right.

It was just a hunch, but the very shape of things didn’t add up.

Illyan glanced at the clock, and saw that it was coming to be six am and Sergeant Kaverin should be reporting in half an hour for duty in the Residence. Usually he would assign this case for any of his analyst, but there wasn’t anything in the scraps of information that they could see any better than he did. And… he couldn’t get any sleep.

So, with a sigh he heaved up from his chair and redressed into his sharp uniform and called a ground car for transportation.

As Illyan settled into the car, he contemplated that he was getting too paranoid in his old age, too tired and weary for this game.

He really should retire.

However, he wanted to be sure that his successor would be the best possible person and ready for the duty. It hadn’t been a question of the person, not really, not for two years. Not since the idea had first came to him. Back then, he had at first laughed at the very absurdity of it, but recently, after serious thinking and long discussions with Gregor, it had started to feel _right_.

After all, there was no other young man more fanatically loyal and capable in intelligence work than Miles Vorkosigan.

Vorkosigan as the Chief of Impsec, Illyan couldn’t help but to ruefully smile. It was a blasphemy, according to some, but it would fit into this odd pattern honor and loyalty spawning the recent history, in an odd way. From Vorkosigan to him and him to Vorkosigan. Sure Miles would protest at being handed a promotion and a nice golden chain tying him to a desk job, but the boy could learn how to adapt.

And in any case it all came down to trust. If he could trust one man over everyone else, it would be his honorary nephew.

“Sir, we have arrived.” His driver remarked and Illyan was pulled from his thoughts.

A lazy salute and briefly murmured directions, the Chief of Impsec walked down the waking halls of residence and not too long after, encountered the object of his curiosity; a tall, inconspicuous man known as Sergeant Kaverin.

The Sergeant noted him with clear surprise almost right after and snapped immediately into a sharp salute.

Illyan calmly remarked; “At ease, Sergeant. I am just on my way to the morning briefing.”

Immediately the man forced himself to relax and nodded and continued his way.

Illyan waited for a moment for the best timing, and then raised his voice lightly in soft, polite inquiry at the Sergeant’s back; “Oh, by the way, how was your migraine yesterday evening?”

The man froze, eyes wide and turned to look at him like a rabbit being caught by a fox, and let out in surprise; “...what migraine?”

Too tense of a reaction, too wary – the man was hiding something. What? A relatively harmless transgression, such as broken regs, or a more sinister act? Illyan narrowed his eyes in a way that some of his more easily spooked subordinates got chills over and remarked sharply; “The one that you smuggled non-regulation items for yesterday evening.”

That panicked look in his eyes and the way the Sergeant blanched white – a large secret, then. Discreetly Illyan tapped his wrist com alerting for backup, and stood calmly and remarked out loud; “The pellets that you reported as pain medication contained inorganic material. Not something that was there by accident.”

“I… I…. no…”

Perhaps it was cruel, but the way the man’s eyes blanked in sheer terror was something that Illyan found that he really did enjoy. One of his guilty pleasures and eternally saved on his memory biochip. 

“Well, whatever it was, we will soon find out. Fast penta is a useful tool, don’t you agree?”  Illyan suggested, raising the pressure yet again, not much more and Kaverin would spill out the beans.

“Fast penta doesn’t work on me!” Kaverin burst out in panic, and looking around in distress and taking small steps backwards.

“Interesting, as your profile doesn’t mention any allergy conditioning.”

 That broke the man, and Kaverin inhaled sharply and turned to run.

Illyan didn’t bother to chase after the man, but instead he reported the description to his wrist com and issued an arrest order. It was clear that he had accidentally caught a spy. From what agency, was the question – Cetas or perhaps Escobarans? Both had managed to infiltrate the lower ranks before, but this didn’t seem like them. Inorganic material hinted at high tech, which usually pointed to Betans, but they wouldn’t send out men to high risk missions, especially not to a deep cover post in Barrayar.

Wait a minute.

Back track; high tech, infiltration, very effective intelligence work – and suddenly all the crumbs settled together in Illyan’s mind.

_Oh God…_

Cetagandans had an experimental Illyrican nanotech device and there was a possibility that it had been here, at the Residence, yesterday evening.

At the Emperor’s spring ball, where the cream of the Empire had been present.

Worst case scenario - they could have gotten anyone in the guest list. Counts, Ministers, General Staff… even the Emperor. The full horror dawned on Illyan and he swallowed.

He needed to get into middle of this mess. Right now and find out where they had planted it!

Taking a deep inhale and fighting to gain control of his terror, Illyan sorted through the priorities for handling this catastrophe. Among everything else, he needed to get someone to find out what the fuck had happened while he controlled the chaos. 

Who?

And suddenly he remembered just who was still on the ground leave in the capitol and had the required experience and expertise, and decidedly brilliant nose for sniffing out Cetagandan plots.

Who was conveniently missing a domestic mess from his resume.

He raised his com to his lips, and murmured; “Alert Lieutenant Vorkosigan and have him arrive asap to the headquarters for briefing. We have a situation.”

 

* * *

 

“Beep! Beep!”

A loud, consistent and severely annoying noise woke him up. Through the haze of sleep and oddly confused mess that his senses reported to him, he finally found the source of this unpleasant wake up call. It was a secured comsole alerting to an incoming vid call.

It wasn’t very common for him to get early morning vid calls, as everyone who knew him, knew that he liked to sleep late after a long night of partying. And it was weekend, there shouldn’t be any reason for the Ops to call him either... and it _was_ weekend. Of that he was certain.

But obediently he rose up from the bed, and stumbled to walk the short distance from the bed to the comsole. Had the floor always been that close? And why did everything ache like this? Never mind, he would get to the heart of the issue after he had gotten rid of that beeping…

He settled to sit at the comsole, swept his hand through his hair to make himself slightly more presentable and straightened his pajama top. Odd, it was an old comfortably worn shipknit, and he had been sure that he had dressed into the new and stylish silk number that one of his earlier girlfriends had gifted him with.

Pressing the heels of his palms to his eyes he rubbed a bit and tried to focus, then activated the comsole with his handprint and retina.

It was a Lieutenant in uniform and with shiny Impsec horus eyes on his collar. What the hell? Why would the spooks wake him up? Immediately he straightened, and tried to look more focused.

“Lieutenant Vorkosigan, Chief Illyan summons you for a mission briefing. Report to the headquarters as soon as possible.”

What the fuck?

He nodded dumbly as he tried to process through this mess, but the Impsec flunkie took the gesture as a confirmation and with a salute, ended the vid call.

Illyan, mission… Lieutenant Vorkosigan?

What had happened that Illyan needed Miles urgently? And why the fuck did that flunkie address him as Miles, surely the lieutenant couldn’t mistake them for each other? They didn’t even look alike! And the Impsec didn’t employ idiots…

He smiled as an amusing though hit him, oh boy… this would make a hilarious tidbit to rib Miles with. The twit had been away long enough that people could mistake even Ivan as him. Hah. Maybe that would make the git to realize that he should spend more time at home?

Well, he would forward this message to Miles and get back to sleep, Ivan decided and yawned.

For some reason it was then that he noticed something odder – he wasn’t at his own flat. It wasn’t a particularly odd happenstance for him to have spent the night at strange location, but for the fact that he was quite sure he had managed to get home last night… and more importantly, Ivan could recognize this room.

Why the fuck he was in Miles’s tiny bedroom in the Vorkosigan House?

The comsole forgotten, he stood up and tried to walk to the window when he finally realized that the world was completely wrong. Everything was too tall.

Absolutely everything.

Or he had shrunk down?

Glancing down confirmed the second theory as the more likely one.

His heart was trying to leap from his chest and he tried to keep breathing despite the rising panic. In some evil foreboding curiosity, Ivan stumbled into the bathroom where he knew that the only functional mirror in Miles’s bedroom would be. The git disliked mirrors, and had avoided their bitter reminder all his life.

The mirror showed him his worst nightmare.

He knew that he was Ivan Vorpatril, “Ivan the Idiot”, a perfectly ordinary lieutenant in Ops – but for some reason, the mirror unmercifully proved that right now, he was Miles Vorkosigan.

Oh god…

This was a _disaster_.

This was horrible…

What could he do?

Idly, in macabre curiosity he touched his face, traced the deep pain lines etched early on his cousins face… which he wore at the moment. There was so many things wrong it that he couldn’t keep track of it all. And Illyan had an urgent mission for Miles…

There was _a situation_.

In his experience, those words never promised anything good.

Oh god, where was Miles?

He needed Miles. Right now. He was just Ivan the Idiot, he couldn’t do this! Miles could. Miles would know what to do!

But if he was wearing Miles’s body, wouldn’t it make sense that Miles should be in his body? Yes. Or at least, that was the next thing he should do. Check what had happened to his body and somehow find out how to transfer back…. wasn’t that how it always happened in holovids?

Yes.

Ivan swallowed and inhaled deeply, and stumbled to the closet trying to find something suitable to wear. Thankfully most of Miles’s clothes were uniforms, and finding a set of clean undress greens was easy. Never mind that he had clear the floor by kicking the parade red and blues to the side that the git had been wearing yesterday at the ball and apparently conveniently shed to the floor. Ugh, and people called Ivan lazy… If there was a thing that Ivan had learned while living alone without any servants in the household, was that a moment’s laziness would come to bite him back, so it was usually better to drop dirty garments right away to the laundry basket.

No matter how he tried to _not to look_ , he couldn’t help noticing the ugly mess of scars covering Miles’s body and the constant slight ache everywhere… and the way it was impossible to keep his breath steady or how his pulse was raging far faster than he was used to.

He had to find out how to get back to his own body. Fast.

So desperately trying to keep calm, he slipped away from the Vorkosigan house after dodging a few servants running still the household despite Vicereine and Viceroy already having transferred most of their retinue to Sergyar… then Ivan had to deal with the Armsmen and order them to stand at ease, explaining that he just needed to pay a brief visit to Ivan. _Not_ a matter that demanded an armed escort, thank you very much.

And wasn’t that weird, telling people that he needed to visit himself?

In any case, trying to behave like Miles would left an ashen taste to Ivan’s mouth. Not that he had been too good at it either, as Pym’s questioning and bland look had made it clear. Ivan just wasn’t made for this stuff.

So, never mind Illyan’s summons for urgent mission – this was more important.

He climbed in Miles’s red enameled lightflyer and took course to the newer parts of the town where his own apartment was. Oddly, the drive with the finely tuned machine calmed his nerves. It truly was a sleek and beautiful flyer, custom fitted for Miles… and right now, it handled like a dream.

And if something, Ivan had a fierce appreciation for fine lightflyers. He liked speed.

The early Sunday morning’s nice weather backfired on him though, as the time and date made sure that the Vorbar Sultana’s traffic was light and didn’t give himself a lot of time to gather his frayed nerves. On the other hand, maybe it was just as well.

The sooner this shit storm was over the better.

Gathering his nerve, Ivan made his way to his own door, searched for the keys out of habit before realizing that he wouldn’t find them, and then hesitantly made his way to the receptionist and asked to be let up. Thankfully Miles was highly recognizable and the receptionist let him up without much of a comment.

A knock at the door and some tense wait later, the door opened and Ivan let out the breath he had been holding in.

The man opening the door was himself.

Well, someone else in his body, but close enough.

He burst out in cheer relief; “Thank god! I had a moment’s fear you weren’t here and my body would be lying on, here, empty and I would be alone in this absurd mess!” And with those words, Ivan pushed inside, totally ignoring the way his double’s face was frozen in utter stun and how the man was way too calm for the situation.

Inside the apartment, he couldn’t help but to notice that the other Ivan was in the middle of making coffee. Or at least trying to…

On the kitchen’s counter was his coffee machine, a bag of special ground coffee imported from Escobar that he had developed a recent liking to and a package of filter bags which had been scattered around the counter. And speaking of his coffee machine, it was opened in multiple places and there wasn’t even water poured into the tank…

The hell?

Who the fuck was so inept that he didn’t even know how to use a coffee machine?

Miles certainly knew at least that much. He remembered well how Miles had once stayed over and made coffee at the morning during a ground leave few years back.

And speaking of Miles, the little maniacal git wouldn’t be that silent. Or still… Ivan turned around and noted how the other Ivan had closed the door and looked at him with a distinct frown. It made his handsome face look severe…

It looked wrong.

Ivan was a cheerful person, never severe. Neither was Miles.

 “You are not Miles.” Ivan whispered, the realization hitting him hard.

“No. And I think I can safely assume that you aren’t either.” The other Ivan spoke with deceptive calmness.

“No,” Ivan agreed dumbly, trying to make sense of this. “Who are you?”

“That puzzled look, the earlier outburst… your clear familiarity with this apartment.” The other Ivan rattled off thoughtfully, then frowned; “You are Ivan, then.”

Ivan just nodded and felt really alien standing in the middle of his own apartment wearing his cousin’s body. The whole mess was getting more absurd by the minute, and what ticked him of the most, was how the other Ivan behaved in a manner that felt eerily familiar. He felt like he really should connect the dots already.

Who he knew that was always calm, often severe and had just that thoughtful frown…

_Oh my god._

“Gregor?!”

 

* * *

 

The man, who was most commonly known as the Emperor of Barrayaran Imperium or occasionally, in slightly unofficial capacity as Count Vorbarra, and to an honest few as just simply Gregor, sighed deeply.

Truthfully, he had been hoping that this was just a bizarre dream. However, with every minute since opening his eyes and finding himself in a strange bed and equally unfamiliar apartment, it had become increasingly apparent that categorizing this as such was just wistful thinking.

In the first case, how could he dream an apartment he had never visited?

So, he had tried to make sense of the situation and fast noticed even more baffling notion – his body wasn’t the same. It was broader in the shoulders, more muscled… and tanned. Locating a mirror had been easy, and at the moment he recognized the face he was wearing, he felt an odd mixed set of feelings, such as relief, confusion, a stab of fear – and cheer curious joy. For some odd reason, at the moment he wasn’t the absolute monarch of the tri-planetary empire, a job and duty that had trapped him from his birth, but instead just a regular Vor - Lieutenant Ivan Vorpatril.

Perhaps it was horrible of him the feel that curious fascination, even joy for the situation. But then again, it was a dream come true in part. Well, at least a dream he had often dreamed as a younger man that he would escape his duties and have a chance to live a normal life.

And now… it was here.

Unasked, unexplained – it simply was.

But then he remembered all that he had been working for, in particular the law reform he had been subtly pushing through that was finally going up to vote in Council of Counts next week… it was something fully his own, not containing even the slightest handprint from his old respected lord Regent.

He had to find a way back to his own body. But if he was here, in his cousin Ivan’s body, was Ivan perhaps been misplaced into his own?

At once an image of Ivan as the Emperor of Barrayar came to his mind, and Gregor couldn’t help but to let out an incredulous scoff. His lazier cousin would definitely scream in terror and run the other way.

However, the bizarre situation being what it was… it was a likely possibility.

In any case, he should make and attempt to find out what had happened to his own body, Gregor decided, and took to finding suitable garments to wear.

Ivan’s closet had a nice range of possibilities, and for a brief moment Gregor wondered what he should pick out – he didn’t know much of the casual fashion, usually preferring simple dark civilian suits for himself. Understandable as he never had had much chance for casual interaction…

But sadly Ivan’s closet was missing the suits. It was, however, rich in officers’ undress greens and other relevant uniforms and even surprisingly large collection of more varied civilian options. Gregor had a distaste of dressing in uniform, he wasn’t fan of them in general – and wearing a mark of other’s service was equally disdainful. So in the end, Gregor ended up choosing bland and comfortable dark trousers and simple beige shirt.

The coffee was the next priority.

He was a morning person, having been in the habit of waking up early since his childhood and with his hectic days the importance of a morning cup of caffeine and breakfast was deeply ingrained into him. Besides, it wasn’t like he could just march into the Residence and ask for an Imperial audience wearing Ivan’s face this early in the morning.

Sun was just rising up.

And in any case, travelling there with all the pomp and circumstance wasn’t a productive plan of action when he wasn’t even sure what the situation was with his original body.

However, making a cup of coffee presented quickly unprecedented difficulties. The thing was that Gregor had never had a change to become very familiar with everyday kitchen appliances and while he had a good guess how the process of making coffee worked… it wasn’t exactly easy to find the required items and reason out the machine’s functions without having an owner’s manual.

And he had tried to find it, too…

Then a peculiar knocking from the door pulled Gregor from his thoughts, and he froze in surprise – he had never once even considered a possibility that someone could have business with Ivan Vorpatril this early in the morning. Not that he knew all the exact peculiarities of his cousins living, but still… early Sunday morning visits didn’t sit right in Ivan’s character.

No matter, if he was to be Ivan for the moment, he should at least be polite and open the door to inquire the visitor’s business. To his bafflement, the open doorway contained a panicked and loud mess that was his other cousin - and foster brother - Miles.

Gregor’s eyes widened and he felt the sheer relief flooding his veins, and deliberately relaxed. If Miles was here, he would be on top of the situation and could be trusted to have a plan to rectify the matter.

However, after studying short man’s actions and manner for a brief moment, it became quickly clear that it might not be that easy – for Miles wasn’t behaving anything like himself.

When he finally concluded the identity of a person currently wearing Miles’s body, Gregor felt even more baffled.

What had happened to lead them to this bizarre situation?

And more importantly, who was wearing his body and was thus the acting Emperor of Barrayar?

…and where the hell was Miles Vorkosigan?


	2. When everyone's got secrets, the name of the game becomes "who knows what?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that this is so late. However, as a small comfort, please enjoy the cover-art I made for the story and the extra-long chapter. It's a monster, all right.
> 
> Let's hope I can get the next chapter up a little bit sooner...
> 
> But no promises. My life is a real mess right now.

# 

 

# Chapter 2. When everyone’s got secrets, the name of the game becomes “who knows what?”

 

“God dammit!”

Miles exclaimed as he ended up flat on his face on the fine carpet. Curiously enough, the fall didn’t hurt... much.

Not even a minute ago, he had woken up to an unfamiliar alarm clock’s sound and had felt the eerily familiar confusion that followed his mysterious seizures, well, sans the usual hangover-like effects. _Not again…_ he grimaced and swept his hand over his face. However, opening his eyes gave him more pressing concerns than minor health issues; he wasn’t where he was supposed to be.

Immediately, he checked for restraints and guards.

None found… so he _wasn’t_ kidnapped?

At the nightstand laid an impressive collection of wrist coms and alarms, and demurely next to them; an electronic book reader with a psychology disc inside, and curiously few thrash fiction discs next to it, a bottle of sleeptimers and other miscellaneous medication. That ruled out most criminal plots, because surely no one would be stupid enough to leave all that communication equipment in such an easy reach? Or maybe it was set there to lull him into a false security….

A minute check at the most benign looking wrist com confirmed that it was working in full capacity. Activating the connection and listening in the answering voice told him something even more worrying; he was in the Residence and the wrist com was Gregor’s.

Thus he abruptly tried to stand and find out more…

It was then that he realized that the world was _wrong_. Not even slightly wrong but _wrong in every way possible_ , because everything was at a wrong angle and he had apparently grown a feet in height overnight.

_Impossible!_

…and his legs rebelled, sending him flat to the floor.

From his embarrassing position it was easy to note how his hands weren’t his own either. His own hands were full of scars, the fingers were stubby, the nails were always thoroughly gnawed down to the cuticle – his habit of biting his fingernails might be unattractive, but so was a lot of other things in him and it helped him to _think_. These hands, though, were large and the fingers were long and elegant in a way that the ladies would describe as the pianist fingers, or so Miles fancied. Not a single scar or callus to be seen, definitely not a physical worker’s hands.

And truthfully… taking in the surroundings, the wrist com, the sudden increase in height and these hands… all lent to one unlikely conclusion.

For some cracked up reason he was in Gregor’s body.

Where was the Emperor then? Missing? Relocated out of his body? Killed? What would happen to Barrayar without Gregor…?

_Oh fuck no._

This couldn’t be happening.

Sure he knew the Imperial Succession theory. He had even cracked jokes about it, even dangled the possibility to that megalomaniacal whore Cavilo during the Hegen Hub crisis... But no matter the jokes and the blood and heritage, the possibility of him as the Emperor wasn’t something that people would speak out loud. Aral Vorkosigan’s stance in the matter was rock solid; no Vorkosigan would ever sit on the Imperial Campstool, and Miles understood it all.

He had never _, ever,_ wanted Gregor’s job.

But right now, if he couldn’t find Gregor and reverse this…

No.

It simply wasn’t a possibility.

Backtrack. If he was somehow misplaced into Gregor’s body, didn’t that also follow that Gregor would be misplaced into his body? He needed to find out. And in any case, even if it wasn’t so, it would be prudent to find out what had happened to his original body anyways.

For this, he would have to get moving and find something to wear.

Biting his teeth together in determination, Miles heaved himself up to his knees, took hold of the nightstand and carefully gathered his long, gangly legs under him. He found out soon that while walking was odd, it wasn’t impossible – clearly the body knew how. If he didn’t concentrate too hard, the body moved almost just like his own, never mind the staggering size difference between them. So, he should be able to handle the everyday functions.

_Thank god._

He could only imagine the trouble, if he had to learn how to walk again and get used to the new limbs the hard way….

Miles didn’t get far, just barely a few steps out of the bedroom, when he became face to face with a servant in Vorbarra’s colors. What was the man’s name? He had absolutely no idea… but the servant was clearly a valet.

Miles paused in bafflement. While he was used to having servants, he was by preference self-sufficient and liked to, for example, handle his dressing alone. But if he was Gregor for these people at the moment, could he act according to his own preferences?

A sinking feeling hit the bottom of Miles’s stomach and he realized that he needed to get into the role and fast. _If he roused suspicion, if he acted too out of order…_ oh shit, Barrayar had a great deal of well-founded fears for insane Emperors. He could singlehandedly destroy _everything_ his family and friends had been shedding sweat and blood for decades. Miles swallowed, no, no – he could do this. _He had_ spent the majority of the last decade in a deep cover role, so taking a new identity shouldn’t be too difficult. And _he was_ one of the few people who knew Gregor well as a person. So, it shouldn’t be too impossible to make this work and find out what the hell had happened and solve this mess…

Managing a suitably good bland expression on his face, one that Gregor usually tended to default to, Miles handled the servant politely and got dressed in the dark civilian suit the valet had picked out for him. Inwardly Miles grimaced in distaste; he would have preferred the safe anonymity of uniform. The positive side of the garments was, though, that it confirmed that Gregor didn’t have anything too official to attend to this morning, such as Council of Counts meetings, Military reviews… or any other mind numbing horrors the Emperor of Barrayar was subjected to frequently.

_Thank god_ it was Sunday.

It was when he got out of Gregor’s private apartments after washing, dressing, eating breakfast… that a more acute problem became apparent. The next order of business in the Emperor’s schedule was the morning security briefing with the Chief of Impsec.

_Dammit, this too!_ Of all the people he would have to deal and try to handle, surely Illyan was the worst, Miles despaired as he made his way to Gregor’s office. He didn’t have to think twice about the route, after all, he was very familiar with the Residence, having spent his childhood there and being a frequent visitor.

The core of the problem with his boss was that Illyan knew him too well, and the old fox couldn’t forget a thing either. A meeting, right now – when he still didn’t know enough or hadn’t managed a full forward momentum?

_An almost impossible task._

Should he try to explain the truth?

_No,_ it was too outlandish, Miles concluded with a frown.

Then again, trying to lie to Illyan even more than he was already doing sat badly on Miles’s conscience. But there was no other choice, not really. He couldn’t afford to be tied down to detainment or medical check in ImpMil… he needed to get in the middle of things and figure this out.

Illyan was already in the office – waiting for him. Miles couldn’t help but to blanch at his boss’s expression; that frown, tightening around eyes, grim lines near the mouth…

Illyan was _stressed._

_Shit._

“Sire, I regret to inform you that there is a major Cetagandan intelligence operation going on and we have confirmed that they managed to plant an experimental biotech device during yesterday’s ball to at least one of the guests….”

Miles eyes widened despite himself and his thoughts started to fly in speed, connecting the dots; intelligence operation, experimental biotech device, this absurd out of body experience… So it was Cetas - not too surprising, he concluded, and absently bit his nails and rose to pace around. Had it perhaps some connection to the telepathy experiments? But Terrence Cee had been a result from _genetic_ experimental modification, which was the Cetagandan specialty. Biotech wasn’t their cup of tea, but Illyrica was close to them and it was a well-known and acknowledged fact that Illyricans had went further than anyone with the biotech development…

His thoughts sped up, running through the scraps of information, making connections and discarding them. He couldn’t help the slightly manic glee hitting him hard. After all, if anything, Miles loved dismantling complicated plots. What made it even more interesting was this promise of a good cat and mouse game with the Cetas.

…but what was the purpose of this forceful personality arrangement?

What would Cetas gain by it?

Spying was all well and good, but even the Cetas weren’t absurd enough to do this sort of a thing on purpose. 

Suddenly Miles noted the marked silence and glanced at his boss, who was looking at him with a decidedly peculiar expression – complete bafflement. Never before had Miles seen his honorary uncle look so out of it.

Miles frowned and the dread creeping on him, backtracked his actions for the last few moments.

_Oh shit._

Illyan choked and whispered; “….Miles?” 

 

* * *

 

Simon Illyan’s horrible and stressful night and surprisingly successful spy hunting mission had continued on to a morning of absolute chaos.

While Sergeant Kaverin had been successfully arrested, it had been quickly confirmed that he was fast-penta allergy conditioned, despite the fact showing nowhere in his profile. It served as a conclusive factor to prove that the man was a foreign agent.

Typically only high profile agents were secured like that as losing an agent in a counter intelligence work for anaphylactic shock was an acceptable loss compared to sharing the information. The procedure was never induced to ordinary grunts, though, as it was quite expensive, and they never knew enough to warrant it…

However, the mere existence of allergy conditioning made the interrogation a tricky endeavor and rather more nasty than it needed to be.

The old fashioned way was slow and messy.

Imprecise.

And if anything, the man that was known as Sergeant Kaverin, was a well-trained counter-intelligence agent, with all that implied. Thus, so far they had managed to only get a tentative confirmation that the man had smuggled unknown biotech device and successfully planted it to some guests of the ball. There had been three pellets – but that wasn’t a conclusive confirmation for the number of targets, no. It was impossible to know if the pellets had contained only one device each, or if there had been many…

In any case, it all came down to the matter of time. How long had the spy device been active, what information Cetas had gotten, where were the conspirators hiding… and more importantly, was it still transmitting? If so, how to shut the device? Or if it couldn’t be done retroactively, they needed to figure out how to contain the information leak. Thankfully the reports from their Eta Cetan agent claimed that the device wouldn’t do any harm to the target, even if it broke down. The biotech “nanochips” were very, very small – barely the size of an ordinary red blood cell and travelled within the bloodstream.

At half past seven, Illyan was so swamped in the mess that he had started to delegate tasks. And it was at that point he noted that Miles hadn’t answered his summons, even though the order had come down almost a full hour ago. What the hell was going on with the boy?

Well, he simply didn’t have time to find out.

So, Illyan shuffled Miles’s orders to Haroche. The Head of Domestic Affairs had been brought into the loop some time ago and was already in the full swing to gather a team to track down Kaverin’s movements and finding the agent’s possible co-conspirators.

Now, Illyan was on his way to give the Emperor his morning security briefing and bring him, too, to the information loop. And as soon as they could figure a way to check out possible targets for the device’s existence, the first priority was verifying if the Emperor had been tagged. God only knew how much delicate information the Cetas could ferret out by spying successfully on Gregor… Illyan felt the chills race on his skin at the thought.

If there was his worst counter-intelligence horror scenario, that would be it. 

For some odd reason, Gregor was unusually late for their meeting. It was just five minutes, but it was out of character. So was the way his Emperor’s face blanched at the sight of him… He and Gregor had been working closely together for fifteen years, during that time they had developed a very good working relationship, nearly camaraderie – built of bonds of loyalty and absolutely trust.

So, while he tried to pinpoint where the warning bells sounding in his mind were coming from, he started his report…

…and saw Gregor bite his nails, and start to pace around the study, eyes gleaming brightly with plotting. Never, ever, had he seen the introverted, quiet and careful Gregor look so gleeful and _manic_. It was highly disturbing.

Very out of character.

Illyan fell silent and just stared at the spectacle before him in an absolute bafflement.

If anything, that sort of behavior was something his mind associated his most erratic subordinate with. Briefly, he ran the comparison with Miles from his memory chip to the way Gregor behaved right now – and surely enough, the amount of steps before changing direction, even the order of gnawing on the fingernails, the direction of the motion from left to right, the way the eyes sparked…

It was all pure Miles Naismith Vorkosigan.

In utter disbelief Illyan choked, and before he could even think what it all meant, his lips betrayed him by letting to slip out a questioning; “….Miles?”

And the Emperor froze, just like a deer caught in headlights.

For a moment they both just stared each other.

And then the Emperor started to babble madly, sprouting the most absurd report he had ever heard. Thank god he had his memory chip and could backtrack and replay the explanation, because otherwise he would have been totally lost.

Even still…

“Woke up like this, not kidnapped, grew a foot overnight, wrist com, own body? Switch? Concentrating too much is a hindrance, Gregor, me as an Emperor, gotta find, to reverse…”

….It wasn’t much of a help.

But if there was something Illyan learned of that, it was that Gregor was missing, Miles was in Gregor’s body and he would strangle his honorary nephew if the boy wouldn’t shut up right now.

Illyan pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes, taking a deep inhale…

And miraculously, it was silent when he opened his eyes. Miles was looking harried, eyes very wild and the chest heaving air to his lungs. About what Illyan had expected, really. After that tirade, he too would be short of breath.

“Let’s go over this again.” He said slowly, with a deceptively calm voice.  

Miles wasn’t fooled. Good. It meant that the boy was listening carefully.

“We have a Cetagandan experimental device that has been planted yesterday evening. We know it transmits information. What and how, are still unknown. You woke up this morning in the Emperor’s body. This suggests that at least the Emperor was tagged.”

Miles exhaled and nodded, but then a frown formed between his brows. “Then most likely I was too. Do you know what is the situation concerning my body?”

Illyan narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. As usual, Miles was fast on pick up and made a good point… so he recounted, choosing his words carefully; “I become aware of the device’s existence yesterday, but only managed to connect the plot being active on the spring ball by a random chance this morning. It was then that I needed an expert sniffing out Ceta plots and issued an asap summon to you. Before I came here, you still hadn’t reported in.”

So was Miles’s body unconscious with the boy’s mind misplaced? Or was there someone else –preferably Gregor - occupying the body? Or was Miles’s mind duplicated to Gregor’s body by the device? One way to find out. Illyan raised his wrist com to his mouth, and asked calmly; “Connect me to General Haroche, please.”

Ignoring the eager “Yes, sir!” and then waiting for the transfer sounds, Illyan didn’t quite know what he wished to be true. Every single aspect of this mess was a catastrophe on its own, but put together it formed a shit storm of epic proportions. Not on the scale of the Pretender’s war or the Escobar fiasco, as no one was dead - yet – but climbing closer on the shit-o-meter and fast.

“Chief Illyan, how can I help you?” Haroche’s voice sounded out, clearly wary but curious.

“Just one thing, has Lieutenant Vorkosigan reported in yet?”

A pointed pause, then a slow… almost judgmental; “Yes, he arrived some time ago. As you ordered, I assigned him a task among my team to track down the Cetagandan moles.”

“Very good.” Illyan said as his thoughts raced.

...so of the three tentative possibilities, only two were left. And if there was one thing he was absolutely sure of, it was that this knowledge of missing minds and misplaced bodies shouldn’t be let out to anyone. So, should he order Lieutenant Vorkosigan to report in to him? Could he even let an unknown element near the Emperor’s body? There was no way to know who was inhibiting the body… Or should he try to protect a possible location of the Emperor’s misplaced mind?

“…is there anything else I can help you with?”

Choices, choices…

Compromising, Illyan asked with an idle voice, projecting a mere familiar interest; “Was Lieutenant Vorkosigan alright?” Hopefully Haroche wouldn’t read too far into that, no matter that the question made Illyan seem too familiar and soft to his subordinate… it was simply easiest way of getting the information he needed.

“No, he seemed normal.”

“All right, then. Thank you, General Haroche.” Illyan said and closed the com connection.

_What did this mean?_ With a sinking feeling, Illyan realized that there was _always_ a way things could get worse. So far his only tentative hope of locating his missing Emperor’s mind had been the same wishful idea that Miles had also suggested. But if Miles had been duplicated… where was Gregor?

Miles’s frown wasn’t quite on par with the Emperor’s most severe expressions, but definitely getting there as he remarked; “The first priority will be finding Gregor… and finding out what this device does,” and then an angry hissing breath, “…I cannot be in the loop for obvious reasons.”

Illyan nodded, acknowledging the fact coolly.

It went unsaid, but they both were acutely aware that _the only target_ they could be relatively sure that was tagged was the Emperor. And Miles was wearing the body, transmitting data straight to the Cetagandans.

The Emperor’s schedule needed to be cleared of meetings with highly sensitive information. He couldn’t be officially compromised or withdrawn, not right now with the law reform coming up to vote in CoC early next week…

_Oh god, that too…_

They needed a way to confirm the device’s existence and clear out possible targets, and find a way to disconnect it… a team of biotech experts.

“Dr. Weddel.” Miles muttered and Illyan nodded in agreement. It was obvious that their thoughts were running similar paths.

Not too surprising, considering.

Suddenly the brainstorming session was interrupted by Gregor’s comsole blaring into life, alerting to an incoming vid call. Miles glanced at him, but then sighed and went to answer it – effortlessly passing the handprint and retina check…

And Illyan couldn’t help but to note that in one move Cetas had actually effectively made all of Impsec’s hideously expensive security measures obsolete…

“Sire, Lieutenant Vorpatril is here to see you.”

“Ivan?”

“Yes, Sire. He says it’s urgent.”

What the hell? As far as Illyan was aware, lady Alys’s feckless son wasn’t a frequent visitor by any means. Just why Ivan Vorpatril would be coming to visit Gregor?

And especially this early on a Sunday morning?

Miles’s surprised look was an echo of his own, but then there was a spark of realization in his eyes -

…and answered smoothly in Gregor’s cultured tones; “Very well, I will see him now.” and closed the connection.

Illyan raised a brow, and Miles stroked his chin with a “wait and see” – gesture he knew the boy had copied in his youth from Aral Vorkosigan. However, now replayed on the Emperor’s likeness, it looked odd. Gregor had always been very careful not to copy his old Regent’s habits, in the fear that it would be perceived as a political statement.

_Everything_ Gregor Vorbarra did was _always_ a political statement.

And now Miles was Gregor.

_God help them all._

* * *

 

Gregor and Ivan had settled down for a good calming cup of coffee, when they had been interrupted rather rudely by a vid call from Impsec. It had been recounted orders for Miles Vorkosigan to report in to General Haroche, Impsec Head of Domestic Affairs.

Needless to say, Ivan had gotten a little bit panicked.

A reasonable reaction, really - or so Gregor thought. After all, Ivan was for all relevant purposes Miles at the moment, and thus ignoring _direct orders_. A criminal offense in any military service and in Barrayar, the punishments could, depending on the severity of the offence and a few other factors, get nasty all the way up to mortal. So there wasn’t much to do at that point but to calm Ivan down a bit, give him directions to Haroche’s office and set the harried man on his way.

So Gregor had been left alone to figure out what to do about the situation. To give himself something to do while he thought, he mopped the spilled coffee from the kitchen floor. It was oddly appealing, never before had he been allowed to stain his hands doing such a menial chore.

Liberating, really.

Gregor sighed and glanced at Ivan’s wrist com, checking for the time. It was half past eight in the morning, and according to his regular schedule he should be on the way to the regular morning security briefing. So, at this point there should be some answers available and he could, possibly gain entrance before the meetings with the ministers that were difficult to reschedule would begin…

It was time to get moving, then. It was better this way, to find out what was going on, find a way back – away from this tempting impossible chance he had been handed to.

Gregor was on the way out of the door, before he realized that a serving officer couldn’t, in fact, go into the Residence, even for a family visit, without being correctly dressed in a service issue uniform. It was a punishable offence and he really couldn’t do that to Ivan…

So he backtracked and changed into Ivan’s crispiest and clearly most rarely used uniform. If he had to wear these things, he could at least choose the garment with the least amount of attached history to it, Gregor grimaced in distaste. Thankfully Ivan’s personal standards of hygiene were rather high and the clothes were well treated and clean. His choice was a slight mistake, though, as the undress greens were still new enough to be uncomfortable as hell; the collar was toughly starched – it kept pinching his neck and the boots didn’t sit right on his feet. His heel kept moving with every step in a very unpleasant way.

Compared to the other options, he rather preferred it this way. At least it served as a reminder that he was in a loaned body and loaned life.

The next hurdle came at the door of the apartment building; an issue of location and logistics. Gregor recognized that he was in the newer part of the town, but how could he actually get to the Residence? It was good seven miles away by his best estimate.

Ivan didn’t have a chauffeur…. or even an assigned Armsman driver. Huh…

Well, the monorail would be couple miles to the east and he _could_ walk the distance, but how did Ivan normally move around? The Ops headquarters was close and Ivan was in good physical shape, but truthfully his cousin wasn’t the sort of person to hike to work every day…

Come to think of it, didn’t Miles and Lady Alys complain about Ivan’s driving habits?

So there should be a lightflyer somewhere. Hmm, should he try to find it? On the other hand, walking would be interesting, but his available time window for an audience was rather tight… and he _did_ know how to drive a lightflyer.

Granted, last time he had driven had been some fifteen years ago, when he had been taught the skill for security reasons, but it shouldn’t be too difficult. And last time he had driven, it had been an _enjoyable_ experience. And really, when could he get a chance like this again? Decision made, Gregor headed back in to hunt for the keys with a faint smile on his lips.

Sometime later he was quickly revising his earlier assumption of the ease in lightflyer’s piloting.

It wasn’t.

Easy, that is. 

Gregor had managed to scratch the vehicle’s surface enamel in three different small collisions, the latest one occurring with the Imperial Residence’s main gate. The Impsec guard’s stony look contained a world of unspoken critique and Gregor’s cheeks flushed red in sheer embarrassment.

He hadn’t felt this stupid in decades – and he was sure that Ivan wouldn’t be happy with him either, not that his cousin would ever dare to comment on it aloud.

To his relief, Gregor managed to find a way to the visitor’s entrance and announce his business to the receptionist without further mortifying mistakes.

Despite being quite well adapted to the situation, at least in his own opinion, Gregor found out that it was _odd_ to be asking for an audience with himself. The receptionist, though, didn’t offer any comment about the request and asked him to wait there.

For any other subject it would be impossible to ask an audience with an Emperor, but Ivan Vorpatril _was_ among the very few in the cleared list of Gregor’s personal friends and family. And the Residence staff were obliged to _always_ inquire and then, if permitted, to attempt to shuffle these personage’s visits to the Emperor’s busy schedule. It was a privilege Ivan had always been entitled to, but had almost never actually used.

The surrealism of the whole situation finally sank in, when Gregor stood there waiting in the busy foyer. He couldn’t help but to stare - this was the building he had been confined to for most of his life. On good days it was his home. On bad days, it was his golden cage, where he was the poor bastard eternally committed to keep pushing the old-fashioned and backwater tri-planetary Empire moving forward.

A centerpiece of the Empire.

Always, always, since the moment he first remembered, people had noticed him. Looked at him, been infernally aware of his presence…

“Omph!” He yelped, as the air gushed out of his lungs as something collided into him, and drove him to crash into the entrance’s red carpeting. Around him, flimsies were still flying and scattering to the floor. What the..?

“Hey! Watch where you are going!” An angry female voice huffed at him. Then the strange woman started to desperately gather the flimsies, all the while muttering under her breath; “…just my luck to run into a dithering idiot the very first morning on the job. Oh sweet Mary, what did I ever do to deserve this?” 

Gregor sat up and gingerly pressed his fingers against the slight throbbing pain in his temple, and surveyed the site of the collision. From the pain and angle of impact, he must have hit the floor with a rather alarming velocity, but the plush carpeting had softened the blow. For the first time in his life, he understood that there was some practical value in the ostentatious piece of décor.

Around them, people glanced at the spectacle and moved on their own business… no one stopping to lend assistance or ask if he had hurt himself.

_It was absolutely surreal_.

He, the Emperor of Barrayar, had gotten hurt in his own home and no one cared. But of course, at the moment he wasn’t Gregor Vorbarra… but just a regular Vor born lieutenant, Ivan Vorpatril.

The woman, well – a girl, really - was young, in her early twenties, and she was still gathering scattered flimsies. And getting rather upset, Gregor noted with consternation, as there were tears forming in her eyes. She was dressed in formal office style clothing, made of only a passable quality material. So, she had to be one of the secretaries or reception assistants working here, Gregor surmised.

Belatedly, he started to help her gather the flimsies. It was only polite thing to do, as he was partly responsible for the accident for having stood there blocking the way. She noted his action with a frown, but didn’t offer any comment, instead taking a deep breath and continuing to set some order to the flimsy stack. 

From the corner of his eye, Gregor couldn’t help but to note that she was a nice looking girl, soft and curvy. Some very male part of him appreciated her well-developed chest in particular. She wasn’t beautiful by any means, falling more closely into what was described as “girl next door” – type by Gregor’s understanding, but in an odd way, it merely increased her appeal.

It was an odd thing to notice, because after having had a full set of tall, perfectly dressed and subservient court beauties paraded in front of him by Lady Alys since he had been old enough to shave… Gregor had thought for the longest time that he didn’t even care for ladies’ company. Not that he noted men either – instead he had quietly assumed that he was just one of the unlucky few who were generally disinterested in such things.

Occasionally he had wondered about an option of just choosing someone suitable for convenience’s sake, just to get some peace and quiet on the matter. But picking a random Vor bride was impossible, for Gregor was well familiar with the lurking genetic time bomb hidden in his lineage. And really, what other politically advantageous options there were? Then there was the fact that after having had Cordelia and Aral as examples of a good marriage when growing up, Gregor just didn’t want to settle for anything less. 

But here, right now… for the first time in almost ten years, Gregor couldn’t keep his eyes away. On her right breast was a name tag, declaring her name to be “Irina”.

Almost without a thought, an apology left his mouth; “I am terribly sorry, miss Irina.”

She glanced at him and pursed her lips, and suddenly Gregor realized that his words had come across terribly rude. After all - she hadn’t permitted him to use her given name and they were not familiar enough for such a casual conversation.

Feeling out of balance, he turned away, trying to hide the slight rise of color on his cheeks. Here he was, polite and cultured diplomat, offering such embarrassing words…

An amused chortle rang out, distinctly different from the background noise. Startled, Gregor turned to her and saw a rueful smile. “It’s all right, and in truth, my mistake.” She said and stacked the pile of flimsies straight, then leaned forward to pick up more.

Feeling encouraged, Gregor rose slightly to reach one of the more errant flimsies. He was just about to offer her a compliment, when he noticed an extraordinarily stressed looking Simon Illyan march with long steps to his way. And suddenly Gregor lost his line of thought, but his mouth was already running; “If I offered you a compliment that you have a beautiful body, would you hold it against me?”

The woman – Irina – froze in utterly mortified shock. But it wasn’t even the worst thing in this, for Illyan had clearly been close enough to hear the line, judging by the man’s incredulous scoff and amused tilt of lips while he passed Gregor on the way out.

“I, I… I have never…. you, you… skirt chasing scoundrel!” Irina screeched, full of righteous anger and Gregor raised his arms in front of him; a poor imitation of formal self-defense move that security training had tried to instill to him during seemingly endless spars. All for naught, for it did little to protect him from her attack with the stack of flimsies, directed, of course, at his much suffering head.

After she had extracted her vengeance and stomped off, Gregor staggered back to the reception where the clerk offered him an amused look, and told him that the Emperor would be willing to receive him now.

Gathering his bruised pride, Gregor ignored the laughing stares directed at him in the foyer that held absolutely no sympathy for his plight and followed the servant escorting him to the Emperor’s office in the East Wing. The looks were well deserved, Gregor admitted to himself, if a little alien experience. After all, he _had_ stepped well over the line of everything decent and proper…

Replaying the memory once more, analyzing it over and over, he finally concluded that if there was a mixed blessing in this mess, it was that the gossip couldn’t ever connect his blunder to being performed by the Emperor of Barrayar. _That_ would have roused a scandal. He could just imagine the gossip; “Emperor chasing the servants”, “Seducing a little girl’s half his age”, “No wonder he wasn’t interested in Lady A or B” or even “Just like his father…” Gregor grimaced, feeling dirty all of a sudden. He knew that Crown Prince Serg had liked satisfying his tastes on the defenseless and it wasn’t a large leap of logic that most likely servant girls had been among his targets.

All in all, it was good that Ivan would carry the blame for this.

Even though Gregor felt a little bit guilty for tarnishing Ivan’s reputation with his blunders, he was quite sure that Ivan had probably even more outrageous tales of missteps and lapses of decorum with the ladies. Though, most likely they wouldn’t have actually hit Ivan, because his cousin was most commonly known for seducing ladies of the Vor caste…

Gregor sighed and rubbed his aching head absently.

_“Not making any more mistakes-”_ he muttered under his breath and resolved to stay away from further encounters with ladies. It would be only prudent, as he had certainly proven to be a complete amateur for expressing an interest. Hardly a surprise, that. Gregor hadn’t ever had to work to impress a lady. They had been always chasing after him, well not him per se, but the prestige – the title of the Empress. All he had ever had to do with ladies was to keep his silence, be polite and figure out a way to get rid of them without pissing off their all too politically interested relatives.

Not a single one had ever wanted him for him. How could they, though? They knew him too well from the outside; the holovids, the scanty fast introductions at the socialite events, the hearsay. They all had already formed their opinions, their own minds preventing them from seeing _him_ under all the golden shine, the facade.

Gregor couldn’t help the glum expression setting on his face any more than he could affect the weather. It was just a part of him. And truly, he reasoned, there really wasn’t any point in examining this surprising surge of interest to a lady, well – not at least while he was stuck in this borrowed body.

“Lieutenant Vorpatril, Sire” His escort announced at the door of the Emperor’s office.

And so, a little bit abruptly, Gregor was face to face with himself. Or someone just like him, for the Emperor had a severe frown marring his face and hands clasped behind his back, a gesture very similar to his own. For a moment Gregor felt an intense vertigo, and doubts started to flood his thoughts. _He hadn’t even considered the option that he could be normal and just his mind to be duplicated…_

“You had an urgent matter to discuss, Ivan?” The Emperor said in his own cultured tones, stressing the name “Ivan” with the just correct amount that told careful listener clearly that now was not a good time.

Gregor paused, and tried to gather his scattered thoughts. What should he say? The truth, a lie?

Desperately buying for time, he instead derailed for rather an important curiosity; “I came across Captain Illyan leaving with hurry, has something happened?”

The Emperor let out a small, understated grimace – something he too could have done – and waved his right hand signaling, “could be, not sure I can share”.

It was almost okay, fitting seamlessly into the Emperor’s presentation and it did look good.  A casual observer wouldn’t have given a second thought for it.

Gregor wouldn’t have either, but for the fact that it reminded him acutely of Aral Vorkosigan. His former Lord Regent was an extremely charismatic and physical person and had the habit of scattering such gestures without a thought. They were his trademark, truly, and many men of Gregor’s generation had liked to copy them as an easy way to craft their image. However, Gregor had taken serious pains not to use them at Cordelia’s suggestion, to avoid furthering the stigma of “Vorkosigans, the Emperor makers”. 

His breath hitched at the realization; whoever the Emperor was, it was not Gregor’s duplicate, but instead someone good enough to pass off as him even in short notice. The amount of people capable of that was startlingly short, and considering the circumstances…

Before Gregor could think of it further, or say anything on the matter, the Emperor let out a minute sigh, and spoke; “I probably should tell you some of what’s going on. Very well, here is the short of it; by our best knowledge, yesterday the Cetagandans managed to plant an experimental biotech device at an unknown number of the spring ball’s guests. We suspect that both I and Miles were among the targets. To make things worse, Illyan received a word just a few moments ago that Miles had some sort of... _a fit_ and then fell unconscious straight after.”

 

* * *

 

“Ow, ow, ow,” Ivan muttered as he slowly stirred.

Not daring to open his eyes yet, he fought against the unpleasant haze of confusion clouding the reality. Everything ached, his brain felt like it was full of smoke and even his tongue felt numb, there was a faint taste of blood on his mouth, had he bitten his tongue?

_Why would he have?_

And why did everything hurt? Last night he had been dancing for hours and had had a nice pleasant buzz going on, had flirted with Lady Vorob’yev… but then he had had the _most horrifying nightmare ever_ , where he had been stuck into Miles’s body and had been summoned for mission briefing. He had been in such a hurry that he hadn’t managed to stop at Vorkosigan’s house to drop Miles’s nice lightflyer off, but rather had had to drive with the sleek and sporty vehicle to the cockroach central.

The parking had been a pain and people had stared at his choice of transportation. It was showy, sexy beast of a flyer. Exactly the sort one used when picking up girls, or simply fine tuning for one’s one pleasure. Not one to go work with, especially if one was sensitive like Miles to be recognized for his own merits, not for his heritage and relatives’ achievements…

But by then it was already too late, as the damage had been already done and Ivan had been trying to find his way to the briefing arranged by General Haroche of Domestic Affairs. The mad Vorrutyer’s finest achievement in bizarrotecture had managed to get Ivan totally lost, despite having stopped to ask directions twice. By the time he had managed to find the correct briefing room, Ivan had been totally sick and tired of people’s concerned looks, jealous looks, calculating looks....

But nothing had been more awful than having to face the clearly displeased General Haroche and sit through the mission briefing, where he couldn’t for the life of him keep track of what was going on save for some rudimentary understanding of Cetagandan plots, biotech devices and moles in Impsec ranks. And then there had been an opportunity to ask questions and people had kept glancing at him, like they were expecting him to volunteer to theorize. But he was just “Ivan the Idiot,” whose most known military achievements included just brewing good coffee, sorting the mail right and performing other miscellaneous duties at the Ops headquarters. He was decidedly not a goddamn paranoid spook, who loved complex secret agent games with Cetas!

Then Haroche had looked so damn condescending, just in a way that privately pissed Ivan off. But he knew better than to comment on it, so he had just nodded and done what he was assigned to do – try to track down the movements of the Cetagandan mole Sergeant Kaverin by checking the surveillance vids of the Residence.

It was a supremely boring task, yes, but one that he knew how to do.

By the considering looks given to him, people kept expecting him miraculously figure the whole mess out in minutes or something, and maybe the real Miles could have done it, but he was just Ivan! 

And the ending, it was fit for horror holovids, truly. Because when General Haroche had come down to ask a question, Ivan had been so stressed that the back of his shirt was wet from cold sweat, clinging in the most unpleasant way to his skin and then suddenly there had been just green confetti filling his vision and everything had gone blank. 

“Most horrifying dream ever…” Ivan muttered aloud. It must have been caused by the spring champagne he had drunk at the ball, because after that he had felt a little bit odd. It would definitely fit well into this hangoverish feeling, so Ivan decided with a solemn vow; “…never ever drinking that damn champagne again.”

“Funny that you should say so.”

Instantly Ivan opened his eyes in utter surprise and tried to sit up, only to fail because of the loosely tied restrains chaining him to the hospital cot. The sudden light made his eyes water in irritation and he clenched them shut.

“Calm down, Miles.” 

The voice was Captain Illyan’s and was coming from the doorway.

Blinking tears away from his eyes and managing to focus for just a second, was all that Ivan needed to realize that his nightmare had only just begun. He swallowed, feeling nauseous for a moment. _This couldn’t be, it simply wasn’t possible, he couldn’t do this…_

But when he opened his eyes, Captain Illyan was still there, having sat down to a stool situated next to the bed and looking concerned.

It looked _wrong_.

The old fox had never been concerned for Ivan, not really. They had this odd, mutually ignoring way of dealing with each other; Captain Illyan would look the other way whenever, and it was often, Ivan screwed up or did something that would embarrass his mother… and Ivan stayed out of old Illyan’s notice the best he could.

It was an arrangement that had suited them both fine, but hadn’t let any real closeness develop between them. Not like Illyan’s and the Vorkosigans’ relationship – like Miles was Illyan’s honorary nephew. Like Illyan had liked Elena, back when Ivan, Miles and her had been the unruly trio of kids, like Illyan had become a steady cornerstone of Gregor’s reign.

No.

Captain Illyan was happier when he didn’t notice Ivan, and it had been fine.

So why did this look of concern _hurt so much?_

Because it wasn’t directed to Ivan, it was for Miles. It had always been for Miles. Miles who had the best family one could ever hope for, Miles that everyone loved, Miles that everyone had always cared about… slightly bitter, Ivan turned his face away slightly and tried to focus.

_It’s not you he is seeing, but Miles._

_“_ What’s with the champagne, sir?” He asked softly, trying to derail. It was easier to think of the Cetagandan mess than this fucked up reality.

Captain Illyan cleared his throat, and after a small pause; “Yes, the champagne. We confirmed that Sergeant Kaverin planted the nanochips through the spring champagne that was served with the hors d’oeuvres. According to the surveillance vids of that time period, he carried only one tray with full set of glasses, the standard dozen and managed to serve the Emperor and you, and three other quests. However, the angle of recording doesn’t allow full tracking of his movements. Can you pinpoint any of the seven other quests who received their drinks from him?”

Ivan frowned and stared at the ceiling, trying to recollect the situation from his scraps of memories. At the early evening he had had a wonderfully productive conversation with Lady Vorob’yev, and after she had accepted his invitation to the date…

_Oh god, no._ No! This couldn’t be…

He was in Miles Vorkosigan’s ill-used body and he had a date this evening with the most desired woman in the whole tri-planetary Imperium! He couldn’t even cancel, not this late – she would never forgive him for it. But she would be even more pissed if he didn’t show up…

And he had already arranged the reservations to Galereya that had cost a pretty penny, and owed a large favor for the majordomo –

But wait, it was Gregor who was in Ivan’s body at the moment. And Gregor was a good diplomat; he knew how to handle a girl, right? At least judging by the amount of beauties having grazed his cousin’s arms during all these years… Surely Gregor would do a favor to him and handle one measly date, while Ivan was stuck?

“Did you remember anything?”

Ugh… Ivan was pulled out of his plotting rather abruptly, and he turned to look at Captain Illyan feeling slightly sheepish. “I can’t remember seeing anyone else taking a drink but Ivan.” He told in all honesty, relatively sure that the waiter he had grabbed the drink from had been the mole… even though Miles probably wouldn’t have seen him taking a glass, come to think of it.

“Well, try to focus if you can remember anything more.” Illyan said, and was starting to rise to stand up –

Hey, what the hell? What was with the look of relieved disappointment? And more importantly; “What happened to me? At the headquarters, I mean?”

Illyan sighed, but sat down again and recounted dispassionately; “The doctor’s aren’t sure. All of a sudden you had a seizure, during which you lost all control, toppled over hitting your head on the way down, bit your tongue and then twitched like being electrocuted for six minutes. Then you fell unconscious for about thirty minutes, during which we transferred you here. According to the preliminary tests, there was a spike of activity in your brain, and considering the current situation, we suspect an idiosyncratic reaction with the Cetagandan nanochip’s stimuli. They shouldn’t have been harmful to the targets according to our best knowledge, but then again, you have been always a special case.”

Ivan couldn’t help but to stare at Illyan in disbelief. That sounded… _bad_. Really bad and so very typical of Miles. _Except it wasn’t Miles suffering through them this time…_

“So that’s why these…?” Ivan asked after a small pause, and raised his arms to demonstrate and tug on his restrains.

Captain Illyan nodded, seemingly not trusting himself to say more – but his look of concern told everything, really. For a moment the Chief of Impsec looked just like a tired, weary old man who had had enough. But then visibly the old fox gathered himself and stood straighter, and checked the time from his watch.

“I am gathering a team of biotech experts to try to figure to locate the biochip and see what can be done about it.” Illyan said and took a few steps, but then looked over his shoulder and said; “Just take it easy until we know more, all right?”

Ivan couldn’t help but to glance at his restrained wrists, the chillingly medical interrogation room in the Cockroach Central and be acutely aware that today he had the date of his life coming, and only a miracle would let him get to it. Feeling utterly defeated he let his head hit the pillow and muttered; “Well, this sucks.”

 

* * *

 

To say that Miles was worried and stressed would be a severe understatement. Even though the body he was wearing was in prime condition, Miles was quite sure that he _wasn’t imagining_ his ulcers acting up. After all, it was the only reasonable explanation for this ice cold fear weighing at the bottom of his stomach that his original body’s mysterious collapse didn’t have anything to do with the Cetagandan nanochips.

Sure, suddenly and unexplainably falling into unconsciousness he could believe to be the nanochips’ doing - even convince himself that it was possible.

Having... _a fit_ with all the niceties like twitching and shaking?

Not so much.

Miles hadn’t had any time to say or do anything about it, before Illyan had curtly dismissed himself with a rather daunting; “Stay here, don’t do anything-” and gone to explore the situation. The “stupid” hadn’t ended the curt, reflexive command, but Miles’s mind easily added it to the truncated sentence.

However, not long after being left alone in the office, Miles had felt all his world collapse around him.

If the reason for his body’s collapse was what he feared… Illyan would gather the best doctors in the Imperium and they would surely figure it out soon. Then Miles’s secrets would come out, even the fact that he had lied and _oh god-_

Then his secret identity, his true life as Admiral Naismith would be gone forever.

He would be kicked out of the service, ten years of sweat and blood for the Imperium all gone down the toilet. Even in the best scenario, Illyan would chain him to a desk to an analyst position or some administrative work, and _both_ _would kill Miles_. He knew this in his very heart and soul – he needed to be in the middle of things, in the center of all the action and fighting. To let go of that life and being forced to stay away in safety, in a nice office with a comsole in the middle of Cockroach Central…

_It simply wasn’t an option._

Miles would do right about anything to avoid that fate.

Dendarii were still refitting on Escobar, it wasn’t a long travel there – only five wormhole jumps to Komarr, and two more to get out of the Imperium through Sergyar to Quinn and Taura, to Baz and Elena and the rest of his people, who were personally loyal to him and him alone. _With them, Naismith would live…._

“Lieutenant Vorpatril, Sire.” Announced the Vorbarra liveried Armsman at the door and for a second, Miles became dizzy with the vertigo. His life falling into ruins around him and now he was the Emperor of Barrayar while Gregor was missing and -

_Focus, boy or a lot more will be wrecked than a single life. Like the whole Imperium if you don’t hold it together!_

Closing his eyes, and taking a slow inhale Miles gathered his wits and tried to summon onto his face the best approximation of the severe looks that his foster brother was known for and clasped his hands behind his back.

Ivan was looking somewhat... hangoverish. Undoubtedly because of long night of partying; dancing, flirting, drinking – Miles couldn’t help the bitter jealousy and utter exasperation rising inside him, just what did Ivan want with him?

Perhaps his tone of voice was a little bit too much, but then again, he didn’t have the time or energy for this right now.

Nor ever, the way his day was going.

But then Ivan’s inquiry brought the issue about his body back, and he frowned. Should he hide the facts? Tell about it? What should he say?

The real Gregor would tell the truth, because Ivan did have the familial right to know about the collapse of Miles’s original body.

But perhaps, even Miles could gain from this. His need to know the true situation with his original body was desperate, but in Illyan’s priorities, containing the information leak to the Cetagandans was on the very top. Even though one little seizure’s relevance to the investigation or to the Cetas was close to zero, Miles was officially out of the loop.

But here was Ivan. Deeply loyal, member of the family, high security clearance and most importantly - _not compromised_.

And Ivan did look quite shocked, so it shouldn’t be too difficult to convince him to make a trip to the Impsec headquarters… so with deceptive calmness, trying to portray the right kind of concern, Miles started; “Ivan, could I perchance - “

And it was then that he finally looked at Ivan. Really looked at his cousin, whom he had grown up with and had envied and loved ferociously like a brother – and saw a very self-contained person, whose expertly masked face didn’t reflect their thoughts. No matter the body or the impressive Ivanish swollen bump on his temple…

It wasn’t Ivan.

Miles didn’t quite gape, but his thoughts started to speed up. If he was in Gregor’s body, and someone else was in his original body… but Haroche hadn’t noticed markedly different behavior from him? But the Impsec head of Domestic Affairs hadn’t actually ever spent more time in his presence than the few minute hallway briefs. So in theory the person inhibiting Miles’s own body could be someone else, who just needed to know him well enough to play the part…

Mark was in Beta, wasn’t he?

And if it wasn’t the usual suspect…

The number of people who could boast to know him well and who were currently staying on Barrayar were very, very limited. Especially considering that he hadn’t spent much time at home for nearly ten years and during that time he had changed greatly -

And this oddly calm, serious not-Ivan –

“Oh god.”

“I was wondering how long it would take for you to connect the dots. Two seconds, by the way, once you started to look. Very slow of you.”

Miles wanted to giggle in a very unmanly way, slightly hysterical. _He had found the Emperor. By accident, again. Oh fucking saints and Betan theistic deities…_ he shuddered, not really sure how many more of these complications he could handle.

“So, Miles – could you please fill me in on what’s happening?”

As he recounted what he knew, his brains were running on high speed to bring the world back on the right axis. But it only helped to make the other side of the revelation clear, because if Gregor was here and Ivan was him, then that meant….

Ivan had passed as him _in Impsec_ and _Haroche, the man famous for uncovering the Yarrow mess, hadn’t noticed a thing?_

At that second Miles decided that the Impsec’s head of Domestic Affairs must be a senile fool and absolutely blind, with no perception ability whatsoever.

Ivan couldn’t pass as him!

…but if he had to name a person who knew him best, not including his mother or Mark, Ivan would probably be the best candidate. What a horrible thought, Miles frowned and shoved the idea so far aside that hopefully it would never occur to him again.

 

* * *

 

The thing that struck Gregor the most in Miles’s explanation was the news of Ivan’s sudden collapse. It was very worrying, and frankly frightening. But more importantly, when looking at it from the distance, coolly – trying to separate the emotions from the facts in order to see the whole picture, just like he had been taught from an early age by Aral and Cordelia both, it simply _didn’t fit_ to the otherwise clean and absurdly brilliant Cetagandan scheme.

After all, there was no point in planting a spying device and then have it cause such a spectacular way of being noticed.

Come to think of it, why hadn’t Miles pointed this out? Surely the most crookedly thinking man he knew would see it? Although, perhaps Miles had, but merely refused to speculate on incomplete data. His foster brother _did_ look terribly concerned. Almost panicked, really.

Momentarily relieved, Gregor leaned further into the cushioning of his chair, trying to pinpoint what was giving him such a bad feeling about this all. If the nanochips _shouldn’t_ do any harm to the targets, but Ivan still collapsed… Gregor narrowed his eyes as another angle came to him and asked; “You said they were experimental, maybe they malfunctioned? Is there a danger to us too?”

In front of him, Miles paused, then rubbed his chin as if in indecision, then; “No, I don’t think so.”

“How can you be sure?” Gregor inquired with a raised brow.

“Cetagandans wouldn’t use so experimental technology that such a reaction would be common. They are professional and perfectionists. Most likely what happened to Ivan had something to do with… ah, my own body’s idiosyncrasies.” Miles returned smoothly, his logic sound and convincing.

Gregor nodded, despite the small alarm ringing in the back of his head, shouting; _too smooth! That pause! What wasn’t Miles telling him?_ But he dismissed it as mere paranoia caused by the stress and the situation. After all, his foster brother had _never_ lied to him. And truly, how many times had Miles had idiosyncratic reactions to this medical treatment, that drug and so on?

It was a very likely explanation. 

“Earlier, you were in the process of asking me something?” Gregor asked in a way of filling the oppressive silence. In diplomacy, such silences weren’t very useful for getting the information and he habitually avoided them.  

“I was going to ask you to visit my body in the headquarters, but that was before I knew– “ Suddenly Miles frowned, then cursed; “Damn, we need to let Illyan know this. He is trying to operate on a mistaken premise.” With those words, Miles rose and headed to the comsole…

It was like a moment’s clear premonition. Few words to Illyan and the Chief of Imperial Security, the man who was in charge of his and the Imperium’s safety from all domestic and foreign threats would be aware where he was and then Gregor would be taken to maximum safety. He would still be stuck in a loaned body, but _he would be safe_ , guarded so well that a mosquito couldn’t harm him. The scientists and doctors would try to reverse this absurd event with the very best of their ability so he would be returned again and chained to his depressing life. All this morning’s surprising freedom, new discoveries, and frankly, the _thrill of life_ he hadn’t experienced for a decade since Miles had rescued him from Cavilo… With just one call, the freedom he had never thought he would have a chance to experience again, would be swept away and buried so far under classified that no one could know about it-

“Wait!”

For a brief second, Gregor wasn’t sure who had said that, but seeing Miles lowering his hand from the comsole’s palm check and looking at him…

_It must have been me._ And Gregor looked down at his clasped hands, and swallowed, feeling something alike to what he imagined freefall hitting him as he realized that _he didn’t want to let go._

_Not yet._

“Let’s keep this between us for the moment.” He suggested, still not looking up.

This time, he didn’t do anything about the heavy silence falling between them.

Here they were, the two brothers in all but name, who couldn’t publicly acknowledge the bond between them. And though Miles was the one more frequently known for his madcap adventures and pulling insane ideas out of nowhere and making them work, Gregor too was entirely capable of his own experimental decisions. And this, this… was surely the craziest he had had, _ever_. 

“…you want me to withhold critical information from _Impsec_?” Gregor heard uttered in his own disbelieving voice. 

It was disconcerting to the extreme, but he steeled his resolve and looked up; “For now.”

“Their first priority is to find the Emperor.”

“I am aware, however… I am not lost. And in a way, Impsec knows where I am, doesn’t it?” Gregor asked, with a slight tilt to the corner of his lips. A blatant reference to the way young Miles had so decisively thought of himself as the whole of Imperial security on the spot during their adventure during the Hegen Hub crisis, and more importantly - a _reminder_.

Miles’s tiny answering smile was all he needed to know. So, Miles’s first loyalty was still to him, just like it had always been.  

Now he just needed to reason it out.

 

* * *

 

Hearing Gregor’s speech gave Miles severely mixed feelings. Truthfully, the very first thing he did was to entertain an additional possibility that Ivan had been brainwashed by the Cetas and was spouting this absurd set on their orders to fulfill some highly convoluted plot…

But despite the craziness of the suggestion, the way Ivan spoke, the way he reasoned and twisted the logic – it was a work of art. Only a highly skilled conversationalist could have done it. And not even the Cetagandans could instill such eloquence to _Ivan_ in one night.

….and no matter how hard he tried to avoid the fact, this whole suggestion just screamed Gregor at his worst experimental streak.

But still, there was something severely wrong about being asked to lie to his boss. While he was aware of his own hypocrisy, he just couldn’t help resisting to the best on his capabilities and purely on reflex, tried to pick the argument apart. Not that it was going all that well…

“We just can’t withhold this!”

“Why not?”

“We are compromised. The Cetas can follow everything we do! That’s what the device does and despite this… this... out of body experience, we have no reason to suspect that the device doesn’t work.” Miles finished his latest counter-argument, trying to gather his wits.

_He just wasn’t used to arguing with Gregor! Sure, he could manage to cross words with everyone in the whole universe, but Gregor was his liege, the one man he had always bowed to._

“By my understanding, spying isn’t a very effective strategy if the target is aware of it. But do correct me if I am wrong, after all, you are the expert. Say, if we all take measures to avoid looking at sensitive information, what can they get? In my or Ivan’s case, nothing critical. Yours? While successfully spying on the Emperor of Barrayar can be something of a milestone, the useful information can be scarce. I regret to inform you that most of my daily activities aren’t very noteworthy. So they will get the color of my underwear, my pass phases, and a clear record of the people I meet and see in the Residence. All quite menial information they could have already managed to gain by other routes. Everything highly classified you can avoid if you rein in your curiosity.”

The latest jab was a bit unnecessary, in Miles’s honest opinion. He wasn’t that bad…

_Well, all right._

Maybe he was exactly that bad, and knowing he had everything he needed to ferret out the most classified information in the whole Empire… 

Miles swallowed, trying another route; “But think of your safety. Cetas could know where you are, unprotected. They could-”

“With whatever few men they have stationed here?” Gregor asked with disbelieving air. “No. While Illyan’s security can allow a few very skilled infiltrators slipping in through the years, their men are not many. And in any case, there is nothing that even suggests anything more than a spying mission, intended to be non-harmful. If they did abduct me, kill me, did _anything_ to me – Barrayar would raise hell. While we wouldn’t win an open all out shooting war with them, we could make their life supremely difficult. And didn’t you say yourself that the Cetaganda isn’t looking to expand right now?”

Miles couldn’t help his answering nod, and then Gregor continued with his impeccable logic; “So, at the moment, we are something of an anomaly to them. An object of interest and they want to figure us out… And in truth, if this scheme of theirs had gone according to the plan they would have already taken advantage of our vulnerability. I think we can safely assume that they are just as confused as we are.”

Gregor paused for a breath and frowned, adding another angle to the mess; “And according to your knowledge of Cetagandan operations, do they typically allow their grunts to analyze the information on the spot?”

Miles eyes widened, as the latest counter-argument hit him. It was right there that he finally let go of his fairly useless resistance and started to think, truly think, what Gregor was saying.

Cetas were the control freaks in the Nexus, going so far as to utterly control even their genes, for God’s sake. Failure wasn’t an option for them. It was a fact. Moreover, the standard operating procedure in all intelligence gathering agencies was to find out what you were looking for, get the hell out – and the basement boffins could analyze the information _later_.   

So whatever the Cetas could find out, they wouldn’t have active use of it for _weeks_ when the information was in transit to their Empire. And targeting the Barrayaran Emperor? On purpose? They definitely wouldn’t want to get caught doing _that_. The agents would lose their heads for that, no mistake. And Illyan had already caught one man in their team, so they were fucked already…

_Oh, it was absolutely beautiful._ He couldn’t help a gleeful grin hitting him. The Cetas wouldn’t have time to decipher the information they were getting. Not given the situation, no way. Now their priorities included only scrambling and trying to figure out how to do damage control.

So, essentially – they wouldn’t be an active threat. 

“It’s only a matter of time now. They are panicking, very likely to do mistakes and Impsec is already on the lookout. Whether the rest of Cetas screw up or that one man they already caught breaks first… Illyan’s hounds will catch them.” He thought out loud.

Gregor nodded in agreement. “And we are still stuck, out of the loop and committed to handling the situation with the least amount of damage. And while, technically, Ivan and I could be detained in Impsec for safety, it’s not an option in your case.”

Too true.

He could only imagine the chaos that would arise from having the Emperor detained in Impsec for security reasons. Civil wars and coups had been started for less. It truly didn’t leave out many options, though, and he slowly concluded; “The path of the least damage is for us to continue playing these roles.” 

Truthfully, Miles hadn’t been too enthusiastic to finding out what being detained would do to his personal reputation, either. And what would his parents say…

_Oh god, the seizure and his parents._ No matter everything that was going on, Illyan would inform them too-

“Besides, Miles – how does it feel?”

And just like that, Miles was utterly stumped and was forced to do his best imitation of an idiot; “Excuse me?”

He didn’t have any idea what Gregor was asking him. But from the way Gregor was looking at him through Ivan’s eyes… an intent, piercing gaze, it left him feeling like he really should know. He wasn’t used to feeling this out of it, being forced to react, not being on top of things…

“How does it feel being in my body? One that is healthy and somewhat close an approximate of what your own would have been like in another world?”

And for the first time, Miles just _stopped_.

_Trust your beloved ones to point the obvious, to hurt the deepest without even trying._

He swallowed, trying to gather himself. He hadn’t even thought about it, too busy panicking and being flung from one catastrophic scenario to the next, but… having it pointed out right in front of his face, and forced to see it…

He looked down at his body, just staring at it. All his youth he had spent hating his own body, the crooked, twisted frame that had garnered him all the disdain and difficulties, hate, mistrust… back then he had jealously hated and loved his cousin Ivan for being such an easy comparison point. But, in one way, Gregor was one too. He wasn’t quite as closely related to Gregor as he was to Ivan, but the familiar Vorbarran resemblance was there, still.

If one was willing to look.

And now, he was wearing Gregor’s body.

“It doesn’t hurt.” Miles whispered, admitting the fact, aloud, for the first time. He had learned to ignore his body the best he could, but there were things that even the modern medical technology couldn’t help him with, such as chronic pain. On good days he barely noticed it, and while in good mood it was like it didn’t exist.

_But it had._

The pain had _always_ been with him; the bones, the replacements, the spine, the joints, battle injuries… all had heaved a heavy toll on him. But now…

He absently hit the armrest of his chair with the back of his hand, and sure enough the slight blow that would have set off a wave of pain, just didn’t. He felt the impact, but nothing else.

Distractedly, he noted; “It’s odd. Like the whole world went wrong overnight, and now everything is too small. Reaching things is easy, distances aren’t so long - people look at me differently.”

And it was the last thing which hurt the _worst_.

He had been always aware of the way people looked at him, no matter how well they hid their distaste – he would notice it every single time. Part of it was his skill at reading people, but mostly it was just his well-developed paranoia combined with his self-awareness. 

Always, always people had been looking at him, judging him – here, right now – it wasn’t so.

_Like a fairytale dream showing him the world of might-have-been._

Gregor looked at him through Ivan’s eyes, waiting politely.

_Did he want to see what it was like?_

The offer was there, for him to take. And seeing Gregor sitting there, calmly allowing him to choose… Miles finally realized that it was an opportunity for _both of them_. Because his foster brother too, had been trapped by birth into something he hadn’t chosen.

A different struggle, but just as crushing.

“You want me to lie to Illyan so you can live Ivan’s life, while we wait for more facts.” So Miles closed his eyes, exhaled – not really wanting to fold, but; “I must be crazy to agree to this.”

Gregor’s pleased smile and subtle relaxation told everything.

“Then let’s see what happens.”

 

* * *

 

Sometime later, unusually happy Gregor was making his way to the Impsec headquarters. He didn’t think he had felt this good in years, maybe ever.

For the moment he was free and _it felt wonderful._

After their agreement he had given Miles a few directions how to handle the issues, noted the critical meetings and ones that could be postponed. After this quick bout of productivity, Gregor had written a pass for himself as Ivan to visit one Lieutenant Miles Vorkosigan in Impsec HQ and stamped it with the Emperor’s official seal, while Miles was trying to figure out where the most important files and items in his desk were.

Then they had been interrupted by the Armsman Rene announcing the Emperor’s next meeting with the Minister of Agriculture and Gregor had ruthlessly abandoned Miles to it.

It had felt incredibly good.

And now his steps were light as he was escorted to visit Ivan.

At the small, chilling hospital department Ivan was surrounded by doctors and odd machines concentrated on tracking his brain activity. It was… like a hammer strike of reality had hit him as he stopped and stared at the bustling mess.

Ivan saw him and waved him inside, and somehow, Gregor managed to find himself an empty chair near the wall from where to follow the show.

This mysterious seizure that had happened to Ivan… there was something very wrong about it. Frankly, it made it slightly difficult to enjoy his momentary freedom to see how badly Ivan had it at the moment. But, even if Illyan knew the truth, it wouldn’t change a thing. It wasn’t information that would be given to wider circulation, and Ivan had the best medical care there was. So, did it matter who occupied Miles’s body for the moment?

The issue with the nanochips and their odd reaction to Miles’s physiology would still be there.

It was about an hour later that the doctors finished for the moment and some of the bulkier equipment was carted away. In short order, Ivan and Gregor were left alone – well, alone after the door was closed with the guard outside after a flash of the Emperor’s signed permission slip. Gregor hadn’t behaved so irresponsibly in years and it gave him an odd glee to pull rank like this. Usually he didn’t care for such simple pleasures, but here, right now – it was practical and surprisingly fun.

Then the two of them went to business of exchanging information. Unfortunately, Ivan didn’t know any more of the seizure than he did; only being able to offer an explanation on what exactly had happened. Convincing Ivan to keep their three-way body switch a secret wasn’t in truth any easier than his earlier ordeal with Miles, but he had to push at highly different points.

Only reasonable, considering.

However, at the end of their plotting Gregor was surprised from a completely unexpected direction. He had assumed that he had the easiest part to play, having only to pass as an ordinary Vor Lieutenant bachelor at the capital, one who had no particularly strenuous tasks or close confidantes he had to be able to fool.

But he hadn’t remembered this aspect….

“…do me this one favor. It cannot be rescheduled this late, and it would destroy everything I have worked for years to woo her. Please, Gregor, it’s just one dinner.”

Gregor closed his eyes, exhaled and muttered, “Just one _date_.”

A date! Where he would be posing as the well-known, suave Ivan Vorpatril trying to woo the ridiculously prim, cold and difficult Lady Vorob’yev! He would be expected to entertain her, flirt with her, be an active charmer on a mission… and what if he succeeded?

What then?

If he could hold it together that far, it would be at bedroom, where his relative inexperience would wreck this deception most thoroughly. While Gregor wasn’t a person who people would gossip such filthy rumors to, even he had heard that Ivan was supposed to be one of the best lovers in the whole Vorbarr Sultana…

“Gregor, please.”

But Ivan was stuck, here in Impsec for unknown time, forced to suffer through the necessary medical tests to locate the nanochips and figure out what to do about them. The test that Gregor himself had cleverly managed to avoid. So, despite knowing it would only end in disaster… he found himself saying; “It was at eight in Galareya?”

“You do need to pick up her first, though.” Ivan supplied helpfully.

“Of course I do,” Gregor muttered, seeing it coming but still confirming; “With your lightflyer?”

“What else?”

Maybe this wasn’t the best moment to mention the scratches he had subjected Ivan’s sleek flyer to…

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And regarding Gregor... it's always the quiet ones. A rather bad case of a midlife crisis, me thinks... *grin*


	3. Temptation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is for Zoya1416, who left me a kind review asking for continuation. 
> 
> Unfortunately, this is not a promise for more, but just the last chapter I wrote back in 2014. Worse, it hasn't been beta-read or even edited - so there can be quite a few of my dyslexic ESL mishaps. However, hopefully it will still bring you some delight even if I can't say when, if ever, I'll finish this story.

# Chapter 3. Temptation

 

“Countess Vormoncrief noted to me that the old Count is awfully interested in the coming property law reform. I don’t know if Colonel Lord Vortala the Younger mentioned it to you earlier, but he was pressuring Gregor at the ball about it. So much that Gregor left early, in fact.” Lady Alys said as she sipped the tea in front of her comsole.

It was a true pity that today’s mess made it impossible for him to attend their usual tea sessions in person, Illyan thought and sighed, “I was aware.”

Truly, Lady Alys was a remarkable woman and her work at gathering the relevant information from the hundreds of rumors circulating the High Vor-scene was invaluable. But over their official working relationship, the fact was that her mere company was a balm to his frayed nerves.

As a matter of fact, she was his confidante in many things. Her ability to keep secrets was in par to none, but there were still some things he couldn’t ever share, not to anyone, not even to her. Among those was definitely this nightmarish reality where Miles’s persona had been duplicated and the second copy was inhibiting the body of the Emperor–

“Simon… “ Lady Alys started, then paused… as if in moment’s indecision, but then continued, “do remember to take of yourself. No matter how complicated the situation is, you do have proficient subordinates that you can delegate tasks to.“

Illyan felt a wave of tender warmth rising at hearing her lips form his name, a rare treat indeed. Most commonly Lady Alys preferred to keep a certain distance between them, choosing to address him by his rank. Not that he disapproved, he was married to his job and Lady Alys was a fine woman deserving a man’s full attention, not mere scraps he could provide…

“I shall do my best, my lady.” He answered to her with faux seriousness, but her slight ironic smile signaled that she was just humoring him.  

Despite the light banter, the fact that she felt it necessary to note such things made it clear that he was getting too old to be pulling all-nighters’ and riding the herd. Had been for years, but somehow there had been always another crisis, another year, some other miscellaneous excuse to postpone his retirement despite having had his letter of resignation sitting on his desk for the past five years. But Miles wasn’t ready yet, there was no way he could let go…

_Not right now, not maybe for years._

Illyan glanced at his wrist com for the time and saw that he still had a precious quarter hour left of his self-assigned break before he should make a call to the doctors regarding Miles’s seizure investigation.

“Was there anything else noteworthy at the spring ball? I still have some time.” Illyan noted calmly, pitching his voice to disinterested casualness. A lie, but then again, he was a regular liar regarding his emotions towards her.

She knew it all too well, after all… they had been dancing this dance for years. But she obliged him and started to go over the subsidiary rumors, the ones that weren’t solid enough or important enough at the time.

Illyan let her voice wash over him, and tried to relax. His memory chip would record her every word, but right now… he was just too tired to focus on words, ideas and facts. Instead, he let his eyes wander to the corner of her lips, tilted in a slightly humorous way, then onwards to the sheer aesthetic beauty of her cheekbones…

But when he heard a change in tone from lively professional recounting to disapproving, he snapped out of his pleasant daze and was forced to pay attention.

“…I wasn’t there at the time, but Countess Vorlakial mentioned to me that Ivan was seen talking with Lady Vorob’yev again. Not that it is a surprise, knowing the way my boy has been chasing her skirts, but according to the talk, she seemed more accepting to his advances. Which does worry me, I admit. I have been assuming that her motivations are… more political, so to say.”

“Lady Vorob’yev, who owns a marked percentage of the Vorya comsole networks?”

“The very same, “Lady Alys nodded curtly.

Briefly, Illyan checked his memory chip for references, but Lady Vorob’yev’s name didn’t rouse up more relevant information that would account for that frown. The Lady in question had a rather marked reputation as a highly desirable woman that constantly refused all offers for the male company. Some years ago there had even been a circulating a rumor that she wasn’t interested in male companionship at all, but it had been renounced as she had accepted an offer for a date from some Count’s son shortly after her return to Barrayar from her galactic studies.

Nothing to explain Lady Alys’s apparent distaste, on the surface she seemed to be a perfectly acceptable source of an interest for Ivan. And if Ivan had been after her for years, surely that was a sign that the feckless young man was finally settling down?

Perhaps that was the issue… yes, it was quite a bit more likely theory. Though Vorob’yevs were of good High Vor stock, their name had risen to a district clan’s status quite recently, only after Emperor Dorca's unification. It was a rather unfortunate scandal when the old Vorsvalov’s direct line of inheritance had broken and a vassal family had taken their spot. Thus the Vorob’yevs were seen as a bit of upstart. When one added to that the clan’s rather entrepreneurial focus, and even their easy surrender during the occupation...

Illyan rubbed his aching forehead; the High Vor politics were enough to give anyone not born into it a headache. Though he had watched the circus for decades, even enjoying it these days – he had never really understood it the way Lady Alys did. For her, it was as easy as breathing.

So even though to him Ivan’s interest to Lady Vorob’yev was only a positive thing, a good match even, he didn’t want to dismiss Lady Alys’s instincts. Habitually, when he had the time, he second-checked everyone she mentioned with disfavor, but right now it wasn’t an option. However, maybe he did have something to share to ease this fear of hers regarding Ivan…

“I don’t think you should be too worried about Ivan’s interest to her. Just this morning I ran across Ivan in a rather unfortunate incident in the Residence’s main foyer.”

Lady Alys raised her perfectly shaped brow and lowered her tea, a sign of a wary interest.

It showed her skill in reading people, Illyan noted in appreciation and continued to explain the encounter, and recounting Ivan’s rather… embarrassing choice of words in verbatim to Lady Alys.

She let out a charming tiny scoff in appreciation of the blunder, and then swept an artfully arranged slip of hair behind her ear.

While some might think that recounting her son's error’s to Lady Alys would offend her, in truth she was disillusioned with Ivan’s dating habits and blunders and had developed a rather thick-skinned sense of humor regarding them. In fact, she preferred knowledge over ignorance when it came to Ivan’s doings, which was an approach that Illyan could respect.

Not to mention the way she tirelessly worked to smooth over the aftermath, just like now; “Poor girl, I will need to find out who she was and set things right. No young lady should be harassed so.”

“I shall leave you to it, then,” Illyan said and bowed slightly, “until next time.”

After her warm farewells, he cut the com. Exhaled and leaned back in his chair. While he would rather do just about anything else, the fact was that his half an hour of a break was over and he had to get back to the business.

A com call to the team of doctor’s investigating Miles’s seizure didn’t give any groundbreaking breakthroughs, not yet. However, the new addition to the team, Doctor Weddel, the previously known bioscience genius from Jackson’s Whole, had some solid theories.

According to the Weddel, there could be more information coming quite soon, made possible by the surprisingly thorough technical reports his Eta Cetan agent had managed to weasel out earlier. Apparently, the nanochip’s production materials included quite rare metals and the scientist’s working theory was that the basic scanner could be adjusted uncover the spy device’s presence.

It was the one of the very few good news they had gotten in this mess.

However, it didn’t ease Illyan’s worry at all. So far there was nothing definite the doctors could say about Miles’s condition but for the facts he already knew. The rest was just speculation this early in the investigation.

“…wouldn’t want to speculate with incomplete information, but we have managed to find some unusual activity with the brain’s neurotransmitters, and while we haven’t detected any reason for it, the idiosyncratic movement has yet to stabilize.”

“What does it mean? When he will be able to return to duty?”

“It’s impossible to say anything definite yet. We will do some more tests, but so far the situation hasn’t changed.” The doctor avoided saying anything definite, but his voice was grave, signaling clearly that not a single one of the potential prognosis were good.

“Very well, keep me posted on new developments,” Illyan said, but after he curtly ended the call… he clenched his fists tight and grunted; “Damnit, boy!”

“Am I interrupting?”

Slowly opening his fist, and gathering himself, Illyan subtly straightened and turned to look at the door.

His office was the most secure room in the whole Imperium and during sensitive meetings the door was kept firmly locked. However, in a crisis situation, it wasn’t very practical to stay away from the center of information flow, especially when he had delegated the immediate task down the command chain, so he tended to keep it closed but unlocked.

Available if something new came up, or if his personal attention was needed.

“No, no come in. What is it?”

…and considering that Head of Domestic affairs, Lucas Haroche was on his door, looking grimly excited and carrying a folder of flimsies with him, it had to be something big.

Haroche nodded at him and stepped inside, closing the door behind him.

_That big..?_

Illyan pressed the control under his table, locking it – guaranteeing the privacy, while Haroche sat down and pushed the folder down on the table.

“That’s some background that my men have managed to uncover, but the real news is that the spy just broke and started giving the good stuff. They have been pressing him for quick answers down there, as you ordered. He is Cetagandan counter-intelligence agent, confirming our earlier assumption. Ghem-lieutenant Arun Har, to be precise. Not remarkable enough to appear in our files of known Ceta operatives, but a good mole still. He has managed very nearly a spotless record in the four confirmable years he has been at this deep-cover post. They couldn’t have managed to hack into our system, but we did find out that Vorbarr Sultana Military College records had been altered to include him. Beautiful work, truly. Very precise, very subtle. If we didn’t have a good idea what we were looking for, our men wouldn’t have found it.” Haroche paused his report, looking very admiring.

“So that’s how they got him in. A brilliant hacker.” Illyan frowned, and then exhaled, “Makes it easier that he isn’t one of our own turned a traitor.”

Haroche nodded at him, eyes grim.

Traitors were a black mark on everyone. And while they weren’t unknown, Impsec screening system was very thorough. If there was a hole in the system, then, on top of everything else, they would have to look for traitors in their own ranks for months after this mess was done… it was a scenario they all would rather prefer to avoid.

Cetas, in this case, were the easier solution. Find one, break them – find out his contact… and so on until every member in the cell was caught.   

“So we know of two. What more we got out of the grunt so far?”

“Well, Lieutenant Har certainly isn’t our hacker. His talent’s lie on infiltration and recollecting information. Very specific and fitting skill-set for his role. So far he has confirmed that there were three targets, the Emperor, Lieutenant Vorpatril and Lieutenant Vorkosigan. However, something went wrong with the Emperor’s implant and out of the three only Vorkosigan was certainly tagged. Vorpatril’s tagging was a failure.”

 _That… explains many things._ Illyan relaxed minutely. _Thank God and all the Saints._

This meant that the mess could be contained. He didn’t have to let the knowledge of the crisis out in the open or to invite in all the probable target’s who had taken Har’s offered champagne… it was a weight straight off his shoulders, truly. Especially knowing that among the twelve had been rather difficult personages such as Counts Vorhalas and Vormoncrief and Prime Minister Racozy…

But, it was a rather curious choice of targets. Of all the people on the guest list, Miles and Ivan were seemingly a rather low in the priority. So, “why those three?”

“That’s the thing I am not so sure off. It doesn’t sound very logical to me at all, neither does the suggested motive. Har claims that Cetagandans motive is to gain an understanding of the Emperor and his suspected heirs. A very facetious claim. It makes no sense at all – Vorkosigan and Vorpatril aren’t the Emperor’s heirs, nor even close to critical information. Spying nor assassinating them would gain the Cetagandans nothing.” Haroche critiqued.

It was a characteristic estimate from the man.

However, it reminded Illyan acutely just why he hadn’t yet stepped down and given the reigns in interim to this man. Though Haroche was brilliant at his work and certainly ready for the promotion, occasionally he just couldn’t see the way the Vor network truly worked, how the strings of nepotism, favors and obligations flowed. More importantly, Haroche willingly blinded himself with this prejudice.

Illyan didn’t show any sign regarding this personal disapproval to show on his face, and not even momentarily deterred, Haroche continued, “Because of the information’s low quality, I ordered the interrogators to use harsher methods. After some pushing, Har did present another theory that the device was intended for causing civil unrest. It’s a far more likely one to my ears, especially combined with Vorkosigan’s collapse. I would request to gather a team to explore the second theory more thoroughly.”

Illyan frowned, and leaned his elbows on his table, tenting his fingers ahead of him. Though Haroche’s theories had some perception errors, the underlying principle was not wrong. Especially now that Miles’s persona had been duplicated to the Emperor’s body. When combined with the fact that Miles’s deep-cover as Admiral Naismith had been fraying very thin the past year, it was likely that the Cetagandan’s had finally figured it out. And if anything, Admiral Naismith was a very unstable persona, often portrayed as mad, extremely eccentric and highly unpredictable.

So, if Cetagandans had wanted to cause civil unrest, then forcibly relocating the mind of the man they knew was in truth the crazy mercenary Admiral to the Emperor’s body would be… a bizarre tactic, but still plausible. Even more likely, it could be indented as a distraction for a larger plot.

_Thank god they don' know who the Miles Naismith Vorkosigan truly is._

Not like he did.

Miles didn’t lie to him and could be trusted to handle Gregor’s duties for the moment without causing a scene. And the information leakage could be contained because Miles knew he was compromised and knew to avoid critical information.

…but there was a part of him that was very, very glad that he had already arranged for most of the sensitive meetings to be reassigned to the later date in the Emperor’s schedule.

Illyan let out a small sigh of relief.

_Just to be on the safe side._

Haroche was looking at him strangely, clearly not having anticipated his reaction.

Illyan ignored the unspoken question and gave an acknowledging nod for his first subordinate. And what came to the request…

“Granted. Good work with the prisoner, General Haroche.”

 

* * *

 

Miles had severely contrary feelings regarding his current situation.

He was stuck in the office, out of the loop and had no way of getting information regarding the seizure investigation without tipping his interest away to Illyan. And so far, Gregor hadn’t come back to him with the facts either. So he had spent the rest of his morning and early afternoon in a panicked daze, trying desperately to figure a way out of the sinkhole of lies, cover-ups, and deceits regarding his health. At the failed contingency plan number 44 on how to save his career, well – life – Miles finally concluded that it was useless until he knew more.

So, he rather sensibly resolved to think of anything else than the way his life was falling into ruins around him.

That was when he had noted that his fears of being _incapable_ of doing Gregor’s job were rather superfluous because it was almost like having to play Admiral Naismith, here, on Barrayar. Well, not personality wise per se – he had to tune down and try to control most of his hyperactivity, inherent madcapness and attempt to limit his physical expressions. No, as roles the glum paper-pushing Emperor of Barrayar and dashing Galactic Mercenary Admiral were about as far from being alike as possible. But, they were frighteningly similar in way people looked up at him, obeyed him… _as an unquestionable leader._

Extremely disconcerting, when one noted that he had grown up with these people barely tolerating him and hiding their personal disdain. No matter how supporting his family had been, the fact was that their shield of protection didn’t come even close to hiding the ugliness in his countrymen’s eyes. For the longest time, he had felt– 

….like whatever he did, he could never be good enough for his birth planet.

Not that he hadn’t tried, and tried and tried some more. He had been fighting for this need of acceptance so long that it was almost a cornerstone in his existence. And because of this, truthfully, Barrayar didn’t feel like home to him. It was just a method to gain recognition, to fulfill his need to be useful. And while there had been always a reason to come back, for his family and duty… he had felt better – more like himself – while staying away.

But right now… his highly paranoid senses couldn’t find even a hint of that contempt around him. So, for the first time ever, he had what he had always unconsciously yearned from his home planet.

It…it… was impossible explain what that felt like. It _should_ have felt good. After all, it was something he had always wanted – had thought it would matter.

But now that he had it, he felt cheated out. Like having a victory turn hollow.

Maybe part of it was that it wasn’t him gaining that recognition after having won these people’s favor… But truthfully, he couldn’t delude himself to believe that was it because the question that kept rising to his mind now was; ‘did it ever matter at all?’

And Miles badly feared that the answer to that would be; ‘no.’

His mother would note that such things had only as much importance as the person had given them, not a single bit more.

So, had he ran away all these years; fearing, hating but still yearning something that didn’t even matter in the end?

Or perhaps, he was just going _insane_ _from boredom_.

Subtly, he again checked the escape routes in Gregor’s office that he knew of; the single door was the obvious choice, the windows – force shielded, but that could be circumvented by breaking them from inside with a flung out chair and then short-circuiting the safety cache… plus there was a rather curious button on the underside of the desk. While Miles didn’t know exactly what it did, he had developed a rather alarming desire to try it out, just to see what would happen. In the worst case scenario it would cause an all-out intruder alarm and call Impsec squadrons to evacuate the Residence, which had a _definite plus side_ of getting him _the fuck out_ of this goddamn mind-numbing and all out untenable meeting with the most stodgy and stultifying Vor-bore Count in the existence, whose parched low voice was grinding on the last of his nerves– 

“…the coming budget review would allow adjusting the sector’s tax reliefs, which would, of course, enhance the effect of the property law reform if it passes the Council Vote. As the critical matter of cultivating the growth in the private sector and encouraging the development of on-shore entrepreneurship, it would benefit from the Emperor’s decisive action on the matter.”     

“Excuse me, Count Vormoncrief, but are you asking for _my_ official support for the reform, _before_ the Council’s judgment?” Miles asked, raising his brow raised in sheer surprise.

As far as he was aware, Gregor had _never_ exercised his status as the Emperor in the Council of Counts, preferring to avoid antagonizing the governance by the blatant power play. While his foster brother had the right for two votes and could use them to sway the stragglers… announcing his preference for the result before the matter was even open for discussion was beyond the pale.

Preposterous.

A sheer impossibility.

Surely the old Count, who was the current head of the conservative party in the CoC was aware of this?  

Before him, Count Boriz Vormoncrief clasped his slightly shaking hands together and cleared his throat, “No, of course not.”

Miles frowned, and started to raise his hand to rub his chin in his own thoughtful gesture, but managed to contain the impulse just in time and redirect the motion by leaning back and lowering the traitorous hands over his crossed knees. He didn’t care if that wasn’t particularly typical way of sitting by Gregor, but it had become the only way to contain his restless feet and instinctive need to _start pacing_.

“Then what are you asking?”

“Your favor of the reform expressed in… a subtle way. Not officially, or forcibly… just to be made quietly known to few key players that the law has your good opinion behind it, Sire.”

It wasn’t any better, not really. Miles wasn’t aware if Gregor did these sorts of backdoor deals, but something here smelled fishy.

The upcoming law reform was a particularly fine example of a mind-melting load of bullshit topped with a serving of overly elaborate terminology. Truthfully Miles wasn’t all that certain what it included. So far he had managed to decrypt that the basic premise allowed for the first time in Barrayan history for juridical persons to buy, sell and possess property.

If the reform passed the vote, it would override the current law, which allowed only natural people that right – which meant that companies had been capable of owning the properties only in the name of their single owner, not as _separate entities_.

To his understanding of history, the system hadn’t faced any real reformations since the Time of Isolation, and Dorca’s emancipation of serf’s. It had been working perfectly fine back then when entrepreneurship had consisted of only small businesses. But now that Barrayar was racing to catch the galactic standards, there had been a steadily rising number of larger companies and corporations, which ownership arrangements were diverse, such as having multiple shareholders…

So truly, Miles could see a certain logic in the reform.

But at the same time, why to make it so complicatedly worded? To hide another agenda, to circumvent other? And why on earth was this particular old Vor-bore even interested in passing a legislation reform that seemed to lower the Count’s hold of the private companies? And would definitely lower their tax income? Wasn’t it against the Conservative party’s agenda?

_And more importantly, what's driving Vormoncrief to push so damn hard?_

Something rotten, without a doubt.

Miles personal opinion of the Count had been steadily sliding downwards since the beginning of the meeting, so he was inclined to oppose the man on a mere principle. He had never been a fan of these old dinosaurs desperately clinging to their past, and if one was behaving out of order like this – it couldn’t mean anything good.

A quick glance at his wrist com confirmed that it would be only a few minutes more and the Armsman should announce the next meeting. Just a few more minutes…  

And truly, Miles was quite sure that his father would have never supported this reform as it was. At least the Centrist Coalition wouldn’t have encouraged entrepreneurship in a way that would relinquish the district's’ control so badly…

…but what would Gregor do?

Miles didn’t have the faintest idea, but he suddenly remembered _acutely_ why he personally hated politics.

Well, better to go with his instincts. Nothing, absolutely nothing in him was inclined to trusts the Count Vormoncrief’s bare word, so; “I cannot grant your request. As the Emperor, I am by necessity a neutral mediator in this matter and will trust the Council of Counts to come into a decision without outside interference. Thank you, Count Vormoncrief.” Miles said and stood up.

Face blanched ashen white, the old Count rose too, bowed and dismissed himself. After the door closed behind the man, Miles couldn’t help but to observe out loud, “What a sore loser.”  

He wasn’t allowed more time for himself than just a few minutes before the Armsman announced, “Minister of Interior”.

Miles sighed, but then steeled himself and welcomed the man….

It was like the rest of his afternoon went on extra slowly after that. Agonizingly slowly, because no matter who was petitioning what, coming to discuss that, needing the Emperor’s attention on this very important thing after another… he just couldn’t focus. He went through all mnemonic–tricks he knew to keep the petition matched to the name, and then to memorize core of the problem they had. However, he had only a mild success.

 _Or to say, almost none at all._ He just… wasn’t made for this stuff. He needed to be moving, on the spot… this stillness, this forcibly passive approach was just killing him.

….which really served to only remind him that he was _utterly fucked_. The seizures would chain him to a desk even in the best case scenario, and when Illyan figured out his lies...

He could very well flush of military in disgrace; destroying his career, his reputation, his dreams as the third great Vorkosigan Military hotshot in row, piss on his grandfather’s and father’s hopes– 

–lose his freedom, his life with Dendarii. Lose Elli – she wouldn’t follow him to Barrayar. She had made it painfully clear that she would gladly become Mrs. Naismith, the mercenary admiral’s wife and second in command, but not some poor backwater planet’s aristocrat scion’s housewife.

To be honest, though Elli would be perfectly capable of fulfilling the tasks required of a Lady Vorkosigan and later, Countess Vorkosigan… the very image of the fierce, determined and magnificent Elli in a typical Vor-lady’s evening dress – the type with meters and meters of velvet and corset lacings- entertaining the blue-blooded ladies, whose most typical vocation was idle living and gossiping… it was more than mildly laughable. He had sort of always known it, but still–

Elli loved him, he _knew_ that, and he had sort of hoped that maybe that love would solve their problems with time… but now time was running out, and when the last drop of sand would hit the bottom of the hourglass, one way or another, he would _lose it all_.

It was _a fact_.

And he couldn’t even run away, not while he was stuck in this body. And he couldn’t do anything to make the investigation go faster either.

He was chained by duty, stuck in the wrong body and up to his chin in deep shit and still sinking.

Miles really didn’t think there was a way for him to feel worse, but after his rather nice dinner, he received an update via secured comsole from Illyan. He couldn’t even hear the rest of the report because somehow his mind had short-circuited and gotten stuck to repeating words; “… suspect that it is a permanent alteration to brain’s neurotransmitters, and idiosyncratic activity will continue to express as seizures...”

 

* * *

 

Gregor felt like he was immersed into a deep shit and sinking fast. Here he was, stuck in the wrong body and chained by a moral obligation to return the favor for Ivan.

_I don't know anything about casual dating!_

Sure the book discs he had read during the sleepless nights had quite a bit of romantic ideas on how to go on about wooing the girl. But most of them were a ridiculously cliché form of approach, unlikely to work on the icy Lady Vorob’yev. That woman would see straight away through the Time of Isolation style “Noble Vor-lord on a white horse, out to charm and rescue the damsel in distress” –modus operandi.

No, he would need to be suave, modern, charming… something more to please her.

Speaking of which, what had Ivan done to gain her favor in the first place? Gregor frowned and started to button up the dress shirt again.

It didn’t make any sense, now that he thought of it.

Lady Vorob’yev, who he had been introduced to and been peripherally aware of these last four years, was a creature of calculated smiles and cold piercing eyes. While she was beautiful in a classical way and was independently wealthy on top of having an impressive dowry, wasn’t the fact that she was almost thirty years old and had never had a known paramour a sign for caution?

Gregor looked at the bedroom mirror, trying to decide what he thought of his latest garment choice. The civilian style cream silk shirt had finely stitched golden embroidery at the sleeve cuffs and collar and on top of it, he had fastened a fairly simple dark red tunic made of fine handcrafted wool. The trousers were dark. In his eye, the colors looked good and matched well to Ivan’s coloring… but he had never actually seen Ivan wearing such a style.

Well, there had been some talk of Lady Vorob'yev having been connected briefly to that one Count’s younger son, the widower, what was his name – Bogdan, Boris… no, close – ah, yes, Branislav Vormoncrief. So perhaps the lady was finally looking to settle down and was considering men with the right sort of status?

Reaching thirties could do that to anyone as Gregor very well knew. He was thirty-four years old now and had been slowly reaching the point of stumped panic regarding the marital matters. Lady Alys’s increasing pushing was a signal of its own too… not a very helpful one, though.

And Ivan, too, had the highest of high-vor heritage, but the thing was… his honorary title of “Lord” didn’t carry any real weight. And more importantly, all his life Ivan had been very careful to bury all and every hint of his political significance.

Something he had been successful beyond imagining, really, for publicly his relative Count Falco Vorpatril disdained Ivan. Of Vorkosigan’s, the clearest connection was Miles, who was practically speaking unknown in the scene, too. Of political heavy hitters, even Aral had been careful to keep a certain distance to Ivan for that reason… And no one knew Lady Alys’s classified connections to Impsec, and in Vor-social circles everyone had noted Lady Alys’s disappointment in her son. And private connections to Emperor? Ivan hadn’t used them. As far as the public was concerned, they didn’t even exist.

So despite being just about of the best-connected bachelor in the Empire, well him and Miles both, it wasn’t something that people were aware of.

Gregor frowned at the mirror.

Perhaps the tunic was too elaborate and colorful choice for a date? But weren’t males supposed to attract females by showing off? Gregor turned to pose to the mirror, narrowing his eyes. The mirror image didn’t relent and continue to show a stranger in Ivan’s body. Experimentally Gregor tried to smile and to open his eyes wider to catch more Ivanish expression…

It looked just plain wrong.

With a disappointed sigh, he started to undress and fold the clothes back into the closet. A glance at the bedroom’s alarm clock showed that it was nearing seven o’clock in the evening and he really should find suitable garments to wear. So far he had tried on four sets of civilian clothing, trying to avoid the easy solution of dress greens…

But returning to the puzzle at hand; was he trying to find a motive where there were none? Maybe he was just too used to looking through the bullshit, too keyed up for lies and plots and politics?

Perhaps it really was a matter of simple attraction.

While Ivan had a something of a bad reputation among the Highborn, having slept his way through practically every available lady -married or single – he wasn’t without his charm, or so Gregor assumed. Ivan must have been doing something right for the girls to keep accepting his advances.

Just what that was – was the question.

Gregor bit his lip in frustration. How was he supposed to survive this evening? No matter how he tried to reason it out, to get a sense on how to go forward… he kept coming back to this ugly spot. He just didn’t have the know-how and experience to seduce women, nor even a hint to narrow it down.

He was just screwed.

Literally.

“Fuck it all to hell.” He cursed, a rare act indeed, and flung the most recent choice, a dark blue civilian tunic to the back of the closet’s shelf. Then he gave up and got to dressing himself in the officer’s dress green uniform. This time, he swallowed his pride and picked a set with well-worn boots to spare himself further pain from the rather ugly blisters in his heels that the morning’s excursion had given him.

He was out of the front door some half an hour later, in shiny uniform, hair combed right, whiff of an expensive cologne that the bathroom mirror cabinet had hidden sprinkled under his chin, and a set of directions to Lady Vorob’yev’s city apartment complex’s address and the following route to the restaurant written up in a ripped up piece of flimsy in his pocket.

While Gregor had taken some time to memorize them earlier, it was better to be safe than sorry.

Especially because he was obliged to try to drive… early afternoon had given him some time to refresh and practice common maneuvers with lightflyers, but he was still far from the expert that Ivan supposedly was.  But hopefully, it would prevent him from crashing the lightflyer, and causing an accident where he would manage to kill himself and/or his date.

He could just imagine the hell what that scenario would raise.

So, he sighed and sat on the pilot’s chair in Ivan’s sleek silver lightflyer – and gripped the controls tight to minimize the slight shakes. “Last chance to back off,” he muttered under his breath, clenching his eyes tightly shut. _Just a comsole call to Illyan and I could be out of this mess, back in my golden cage, safe-_

“…no way in hell.”

This was his chance to live, to try out what he could have had… his very own escapist fantasy. He wasn’t going to let go of this chance just for simple fears and doubts. He was Gregor Vorbarra, and Vorbarras didn’t give up.

Opening his eyes, he pressed the start button and the engine whirred to life. A release of parking brakes, the automatic transmission set to ascension, a swift look around that he wasn’t scratching the surface enamel yet again to neighbors’ flyers parked on either side of him, and then he was lifting up.

Nice and steady.

He relaxed minutely when he was finally out of the parking space and was flying at low altitude to the south side of the town. Despite his few doubts, Lady Vorob’yev’s apartment complex was easy to find – it was the tallest building in the quarter. One of the few modern skyscrapers that had risen up to Barrayar during the last decade, when he had allowed their building plans.

There had been quite fierce of a resistance from conservatives on that front, and surprisingly – even from the Vorbarr Sultana’s municipal officials on the grounds of “defiling historical city’s skyline”.  It was resistance for resistance’s sake, in his opinion, and more than slightly ridiculous. Barrayar was developing fast and rising to meet the galactic standards, and skyscrapers were a handy solution for creating more apartments and workings space in the tightly packed capital.

And what he really could appreciate now in modern architecture and building plans’ in general – was that they included a broadly built parking space for vehicles; the lower lever for ground-cars and the upper lever for lightflyers. So, parking was reduced closer to a tolerable exercise of caution than nerve-breaking “hoping for best”.

After managing to park, and check his appearance for the last time from the side mirror, Gregor sighed and climbed up. His hands felt empty, and he couldn’t help but be aware how much he was breaking decorum because he hadn’t prepared anything to gift the Lady with. The reason for it was simple – he was absolutely stumped on what to bring. The first choice of a bouquet of seasonal flowers felt a trifle cliché, confections doubly so. Some form of jewelry would have been his best guess, but Ivan’s regular lieutenant’s pay was, ah, how to put it – err, ridiculously low?

So he had finally opted to just show up, but mitigate the awkwardness of lacking the customary gifts by waiting for the Lady at the airy and well-light foyer. And it was the more politically correct form of approach, as a mere acquaintance, he wasn’t yet invited to her home. Doubtlessly Ivan would have used the invitation to push more aggressively, but he wasn’t Ivan and such presumptions sit badly on him.

However, after announcing his business, the receptionist looked at him incredulously and more oddly – eyes filled with skepticism, “Lady Vorob’yev doesn’t receive guests at her private apartments, and there is no mention of her expecting you. I would recommend you to arrange a meeting with her beforehand, before trying to obtrude like this.”

…what?

Gregor’s cheeks tinged slightly in red in sheer embarrassment, if Ivan had set him up for this… no, while Ivan had participated in some pranks as a youth, the plans were originated by Miles and never been targeted at him. No, this was something else…

The receptionist’s eyes looked so forbidding, condescending… was the man suggesting that he was forcing his presence on the Lady?

_How dares he?_

Reining in his flare of emotions, Gregor forced himself to his own habitual severe stillness and repeated; “Lady Vorob’yev is expecting me. If you would check with her, please.”

“Mister Vorpatril–“  

“ _Lord_ Ivan Vorpatril, if you would,” Gregor corrected firmly. While he normally avoided pulling rank or had ever heard Ivan enforcing his honorary title either, it was certainly called for in this case. That “Mister” was an insult, especially given that he was wearing dress uniform and the correct mode of address in uncertainness was to use the military rank.

“I cannot–“

“Yes, you can. In fact, you have an obligation to check in cases of uncertainty. What if my claim is true and you have forestalled my meeting with the Lady Vorob’yev with your misconduct?”

The receptionist gritted his teeth, but took a step backward and went to the comsole, tapping in the codes for apartment 84, the top condo at the 32-floor building or so Gregor assumed. While the man waited for an answer, he eyed Gregor with clear disfavor but as the low-voiced discussion started and progressed… the receptionist kept losing color from his face, sweat gathering in his brow.

It was an enormously satisfying thing to witness.

“…yes, Lady Vorob’yev, right away. I’m terribly sorry, yes. Yes, I will be certain to do so.”

Perhaps it was a little tactless, to let a hint of a satisfied smile grace his lips as the harried receptionist apologized profusely and told him that the Lady would be coming down in a short while if he would please be willing to wait...

He spent the few minutes decisively looking out of the large windows of the building’s foyer, gazing at the colorful lights of the city. Sun had yet to set fully, and the way the sky was tinted with reds and shades of orange was a pleasing combination.

“Ivan.” A pleasant alto voice called out behind him.

Lady Vorob’yev was beautiful as always; tall, thin, her dark long curls arranged in an artful fashion, smooth skin properly pale and dressed out in forest green evening dress with a modestly cut bosom. An ankle-length skirt wide like the current high-society fashion dictated. On her shoulders was a light bolero-jacket to protect against the spring evening’s chill with beautifully detailed embroideries.

Something in Gregor, a small wistful hope that he would find some enjoyment in this evening despite the odds being stacked heavily against him, shriveled in disappointment and died. _She is just another Vor-lady, exactly like the others._ He knew this sort of women and had been forced to entertain them in various high society events year after another.

And now, on his chance to experience something new… here he was, again. There was something karmic in that, Gregor thought but tried to summon a pleased expression to his face and welcomed her with the familiar mode of address, following her lead; “Isabella, you look wonderful.”

Her red painted lips tilted in a smile, “As do you.”

“Shall we get going then?” Gregor asked, and offered her his arm.  

The slight widening of her eyes signaled her surprise to the slightly old-fashioned and chivalrous offer, but she took a light hold and fell into step with him. Gregor cursed his instinctive misstep; clearly, it wasn’t something Ivan would have done…

So at the lightflyer, he lowered his arm and took some distance to her and then opened the front door. A chauffeur would have had a lady sitting in the backseat, and while that was the safe choice it didn’t feel right. And besides, how was he supposed to have a conversation over the seating divide?

However, her easy acceptance indicated that it was the correct choice.

 _I can't go like this, constantly running through the possible options and analyzing her reactions_ , Gregor thought in frustration. He had been set up to an impossible task, for he hadn’t ever paid much attention to how Ivan’s manners and methods. But he knew the proper manners, so better to go what with he knew. One couldn’t err too much while following the etiquette.

His tentative plans for entertaining Lady Vorob’yev with discussion fell short, as he didn’t have time to note her reactions or to figure anything witty to say while trying to keep them both safe in the city’s tight traffic. After observing the insane driving behavior of the city folk first hand, Gregor mentally bumped the need for lightflyer traffic control system to a high priority in the coming budget review. It had been suggested for years but had been blindsided by other more pressing needs…

“Never again,” Gregor swore under his breath as he braked fast when the fucking idiot swerved right in front of him.

“Ivan…” Lady Vorob’yev said bit breathlessly and a quick glance told him that she wasn’t very pleased with him as her right hand was clutching the door handle with a dead grip. Trying to focus, he slowed the speed a notch and kept a wary eye to the next idiot on the neighboring lane that seemed to be poaching on his spot in the line. “I’m terribly sorry, Isabella… but I cannot help the traffic.”

Thankfully, she let the matter lie and a few minutes later they arrived at the Galareya’s entrance, where they rose out of the flyer and Gregor was able to relinquish the keys to valet. This time, as he escorted her inside to the top floor, where the highly exclusive restaurant was located, she seemed even glad for his offered arm. The reservations were in order, just like Ivan had promised they would be, and the maitre d’ showed them into their table.

It was a romantic setting; a small table in front of the window offering a wonderful view. Impressive, especially as he had been let into the fact that the reservation was made last night. Lady Vorob’yev seemed to be mollified by it too and settled to sit in the chair he pulled out for her calmly.

Despite the somewhat awkward start, the dinner progressed fairly fine after that and they managed to start a polite conversation.

“…don’t mean to suggest that the education opportunities in Barrayar are low, but I am very glad to have been privileged enough for a galactic education. It wasn’t something the Count-my-father wished, but my honored uncle enforced my hopes and made it all possible.”

“I am glad for you, Isabella.” Gregor said, and cut a piece of the fine fillet steak in his platter, “If you do not mind me asking, what your studies consisted of?”

Her eyes were proud, “Oh, many subjects. I specialized in business administration, as I had to make sensible choices to please my father, but there were occasional miscellaneous courses, such as design, comsole engineering, programming, marketing and so forth. It was all bit convoluted as I changed Universities twice, taking some course in Beta, some in Escobar and even few in Illyrica. My studies took six years to finish, just for that reason.”

Gregor couldn’t help a pang of envy, what he would have given for a chance to study for years the subjects that caught his interest, jumping from one topic to the next..? Perhaps it was the reason why he allowed his eyes to wander and saw something quite stopping at only two tables away.

An utterly stunning woman dressed in bold red pantsuit dining with an Impsec captain. Very unusual choice of dress, definitely not a local… perhaps, yes it was – definitely Komarran fashion. She was short, vibrant, alive… and there was something absolutely mesmerizing in her smile and her generous figure.

“What about you, Ivan?”

“The Academy.” Gregor murmured, still glancing from the corner of his eye at the zaftig goddess just a few feet away.

“But you haven’t considered applying for courses later on in Vorbarr Sultana’s university? The do take admissions.”

Forcing his gaze back to Lady Vorob’yev, Gregor reran the question in his mind. Truthfully, he hadn’t even thought of the option. It wasn’t very common to see a Vor this interested and passionate about education, but she was right, it could have been possible…

“Ah, I have been doing a steady career at the Ops headquarters. But you do have a point, certainly. I can see the temptation for additional part-time studies. However, those courses would have to be taken on evenings, and such would add a large burden on my available time.”

The goddess in red was smiling to something the Captain was saying, what was that graying older man doing right to get that reaction?

Before him, Lady Vorob’yev’s voice gained an edge of purpose, “That is so. However, during my studies, I often participated in long distance learning programs, where the studies were concluded through comsoles. It’s a shame that Barrayar hasn’t yet caught up because the technology is already in place.  Most of the households have a comsole, and the well-off have several.”

_Learning programs, comsoles, technology – Gregor, focus!_

“Yes, the technology might be in place, but they have been mostly networked into small private networks. Creating a large network for institutions use, such as universities, would be an extremely expensive effort. At the moment there are only two institutions with a capability for such a thing in place. Impsec and the Imperial Military.” Gregor said, and took a bite from his expensive dinner. While he wasn’t very fond of Lady Vorob’yev, he could respect intelligent questions. “Both are highly secured and closed networks, developed to answer a major security and defensive need.”

“You are right in your summary, Ivan. However… you are forgetting one system.”

She had settled back in her seat and was swirling a glass of expensive red wine in her finely boned hands. Tilting his head, Gregor ran through the hints, trying to figure what she was suggesting. And narrowing his eyes, he finally remembered and reproved her; “The public network is an underdeveloped, underused ghost of a project.”

“At the moment, perhaps so. However, it’s the main problem is not the network’s holding capability, the possibility of expansion, nor the security. It didn’t lift off and gain users, simply because it’s complicated to use. Without knowing exactly who or what to find, the user couldn’t get anywhere with it.”

“So you are suggesting that the main issue with that failure is a design defect?” Gregor recounted incredulously.

“Yes, partly. But more than that, I find that what the public network system needs is a way for people to find information: a program, which would allow the user to find certain key-phrasings from the publicly available information and private networks.”

“Radical idea,” Gregor paused, and for the first time, he was 100% focused to his date. “But practically speaking… rather impossible to fulfill. For instance, the security concerns are rather tremendous, as well as the development cost would be very high. You would need political backing for it, and in the current political climate getting it to pass the Council of Counts or the budget review committee is a tall order.”

“That would be true for public development.” She countered easily and stroked unconsciously a rather eye-catching amber brooch that hung on her bosom. “However… and please Ivan, this is fairly confidential information – the development for it is already underway in Vorya Comsole Networking.”

Stunned, Gregor set his cutlery to the table and leaned forward.

She didn’t falter but continued smoothly. “With it, the public network would gain the necessary element for it to start working and would be able to grow. And then… only the sky is limit – the companies, private households, institutions and so on, would have a common network platform. Instantaneous information relay – for everyone.”

“You are suggesting a creation of a similar system as the Betan Universal Network on Barrayar. Out of our failed public network, no less.” Gregor wasn’t sure if he either admired the sheer amount of daring that this woman in front of him had or would he prefer to make a point by ripping her plans to shreds through the many optimistic presuppositions it had. First of all, she would need the permission for such development from the right political channels even with the private funding…

But still, the proposal showed a rather impressive radical vision and a terrifically intelligent mind behind it. After all, creating something this huge, with the key element to making it work being a company she owned a small percentage of, and had significant share pinned down as her dowry… damn, she had business sense.

It was a true shame that she was a woman and couldn’t really push that vision forwards. Not on the old-fashioned, restricting and highly patriarchal Barrayar where women still couldn’t own a significant amount of land or property in their own name. It was something Gregor had been steadily trying to chance with Cordelia’s and Aral’s help by crafting suitably ambiguous law reforms, but passing them was like pulling teeth from the conservative CoC.   

Her vision wouldn’t work, not while she was alone. Not without a man to lent legitimacy and a front to her plans.

Eyes widening, Gregor added the pieces together and whispered, “Why are you telling me this?”

She… she wasn’t interested in titles, in the hereditary vor-legacy. She wanted something far rarer and more ambitious… and for that, Ivan was perfect. A lazy man, who had spent his entire life trying to lay low, avoiding responsibility, career advancement... a man whose common nickname was; “Ivan, you idiot”.

A gullible, loyal to a fault Ivan.

Her beautiful, blood-red painted lips were curved in a secretive smile. “I don’t know… Ivan. Perhaps I simply love Barrayar, despite its many faults. But it seems I have given you food for thought, so please excuse me for a moment, I shall have to powder my nose.” With those words, she rose up and her purse in hand, left to walk through the busy dining room to the restrooms.

Gregor took a deep sip of his water, feeling badly out of balance. While it seemed that she was honest in her intentions, not planning to manipulate Ivan by leading him astray… Gregor couldn’t say he appreciated this development and wasn’t looking forward to explaining it to Ivan. What would he even say?

_“Sorry, but the woman you have been chasing after is interested only because wants a boy-toy cover for her plots and machinations.”_

Ugh… his head hurt and he tried to relieve the pressure by rubbing the bridge of his nose.

“Tough news?” questioned a vivid alto voice, peppered by a distinctive accent. Gregor looked up, and it was _her_ , the Komarran beauty in red. She was offering a casing of painkillers.

Without thinking twice, Gregor plugged one and swallowed it dry.  “Thank you,” he said belatedly, and out of balance, added on the fly, “I’m in your debt, milady.”

Her smile was true, lively and utterly charmed. “You are welcome, Lieutenant Vorpatril.” And then she pulled out the only other chair at the table closer and sat down next to him, rather than opposite him.

“Excuse me, but do I know you?”

“Ah, no. But as Duv mentioned your service together at Earth, in the London’s embassy… I rather wanted to take the chance to introduce myself to Duv’s friends. He doesn’t have many, here in Vorbarr Sultana at least and we had a quite a lively discussion since we noticed your presence here. Oh, I’m sorry… I’m Laisa Toscane.” She finished and handed out her hand for an introductory handshake.

A practical solution, as they were both sitting, but charmingly alien – Barrayan women didn’t usually shake hands.

Gregor took the offered hand, but on the fly changed the hold and lifted it up and pressed a whisper of a kiss to her knuckles.

She inhaled softly, and a nice shade of red rose to color her neck.

“I’m sorry for my forwardness, Miss Toscane. I don’t know what has gotten into me.” He apologized, mortified by his own behavior. But he couldn’t help it, there was something in her that was causing his heart to pick up a pace and infused a certain mad courage to him to perform these silly chivalrous customs he had developed a fondness to.

“Not at all, Lieutenant Vorpatril. I am not offended, merely surprised. Say, is it a Barrayaran Vor-custom to kiss the ladies hands, rather than to shake them?”

“More common during the Time of Isolation, I’m afraid. These days we mostly bow or curtsey.”

“Ah,” She smiled a knowing smile and then changed the topic, “So, should I offer you congratulations?”

“What for?” Gregor asked, honestly puzzled.

“For the news your lady-friend gave you so suddenly, impending fatherhood I assumed?”

Perhaps his control was frayed so thin that his mortified stun showed in his face for all to see at the very suggestion, as she immediately continued with an apology in her eyes, “I mean, Duv says that here on Barrayar people still don’t always invest in contraception implants and natural occurring pregnancies still happen, so I just–“

Gregor couldn’t really help it, but he burst out into laughter. Her mortified backtracking in fear of having offered an insult, those very galactic unconscious assumptions… all were so foreign, so genuine, charming beyond anything he had ever experienced.

“I’m terribly sorry…”

“Miss Toscane, thank you. I really needed that.” He said with a smile and he honestly meant it. It had been ages since he had laughed so, and it felt unaccountably good. “To answer your inquiry – no, nothing like that. Lady Vorob’yev and I had a rather enlightening discussion about business plans, and I just had a moment’s realization.”

“Oh?” Miss Toscanes’ – Laisa’s – eyes sparked in honest curiosity and for some reason, Gregor felt compelled to explain.

“She was proposing an alliance of sorts that, or so I would assume, would lead to a marriage arrangement to countermand Barrayar’s still existing limitations. While I certainly admire her courage, vision, and intelligence… let’s just say, I have this little bit of foolish hope for genuine affection, or as the romantic would put it – a true love.”

Her eyes held a true sympathy like she knew exactly what he was speaking off, “I see…”

Odd, for Komarr was a good example of galactic sensibilities, which deemed more customary to people make their choice of spouse based on feelings, not arrangements.

It was then that Gregor remembered where the Komarran name of Toscane was familiar, and suddenly her sympathy made perfect sense.

Most of the families of the old oligarchy, who had survived the annexation and revolts, were still on top of the things. However, now more financially than politically and among them, the Toscanes were the name to know. It went without saying that as a member of that family, she couldn’t marry just anyone.

“But perhaps there is a chance even for romantics to find a match if one looks far enough?” He suggested, desperately hoping to find a way to chase away the glum look that had settled on her lively face like she had been forcibly reminded of something unpleasant.

Her commiserating smile made it clear that she understood the meaning well enough, “Thank you, Lieutenant Vorpatril. I think that I too needed that. So, tell me more of your strange Barrayaran customs, if you please.”

Gregor couldn’t help the smile that rose to his lips any more than one could avoid sunrise, and he obliged, starting to expand on the sort of silliness that still ran rampant especially among the Time of Isolation themed thrash fictions.

 

* * *

 

“Good, and now lie back and if you would avoid moving for the next few minutes… yes, exactly there and now wait, Lieutenant.”

Ivan sighed and obeyed. He didn’t know what god he had angered to suffer through this, but surely this was getting a bit too much? Since the seizure at the early morning, his whole day had been filled with doctors, random tests, waiting…. and more increasingly grim doctors.

The location wasn’t really helping his mood, either.

Thankfully he hadn’t experienced another seizure since the first one. But on the other hand, maybe it would have been better if he had, just for him not to feel so patently useless.

What the heart of the issue was… that since the disorientation and the headache had faded, there hadn’t been any more symptoms signaling the existence of a time bomb hidden in his head. He was feeling perfectly fine. Hundred percent healthy and ready to get out of here to find something edible to eat, not the pathetic cafeteria lunch he had been handed to earlier.

Well, almost hundred percent, but that was just Miles’s body. A fact that the ill-used and scarred mess kept reminding him off by flinging constant pains whatever he did.

He had stopped reporting these findings, however, when the doctors’ incredulous looks of “ _of course you still hurt, you idiot; over half of your skeleton is synthetic piecemeal, you have gone through cryogenic resurrection, your chest has been pierced together from scratch, not to mention the multiple other battle wounds, plasma cuts, knife cuts, shrapnel marks… and the rest of the skeleton which is unfortunately still original – ergo a useless chalk-stick knock-off_ ” made it clear that the complaints weren’t helping anybody.  

But he digressed; the point was that there hadn’t been a whiff of a coming seizure.

 _So please, could I just get out of here already?_ Ivan pleaded to all saints he could name up on the spot, to Betan theist god that aunt Cordelia occasionally mentioned and even the few pagan god’s that the greekie hicks still kept going strong in the rural areas.

_Just in case._

It was quite useless, but dammit, he was bored out of his mind in here!

As he tried to keep still, and idly listened the beeps and whirring of the scanner set over him. Not long after, he noticed faint shouting from the distance, and fast footsteps – running? Many people running and high pitched screeching of the tiny wheels rolling the linoleum floor…

It was getting nearer.

_What the hell?_

And suddenly a group of people busted through the hospital ward’s doorway, pushing a stretcher and a terribly wounded man strapped to it. There was blood on their clothes, it had flowed everywhere… There was constant yelling as panicked doctors tried to handle the emergency. In the chaotic mess, it was difficult to pick out the words, but for the few doctor’s babble orders, “arterial bleeding is getting out of control”, “we need the synthetic blood transfusion, now!”

In honest truth, it all made little to no sense to him, well over the fact that the patient was bleeding to death. However, he had a working pair of eyes and could see everything all too clearly as there wasn’t even a curtain pulled between them.

The patient looked horrible, but especially the left hand caught his eye from this vantage point. It hung demurely out of the cot, limp… but all of the fingernails were missing, as were few fingers and the wounds looked raw like they had been cauterized shut. On the back of the hand, the skin had been peeled away and there were spikes still protruding between the many bones and joints of the palm…

_It was a disgusting sight._

And a rather clear sign that whatever a reason the Impsec men looking at the spectacle from the sides were worried for, it wasn’t out of the goodness in their hearts. Ivan didn’t think he had ever been as revolted with the spooks as he was at that moment. For a human being to do something like that to another and on purpose… it was just _wrong_.

Then the emergency life-support machinery quickly set around the tortured patient started flat-lining.

And the doctors got even more harried.

Of the two Impsec men following from near the wall, the other started pacing and cursing… and the higher ranked, the Captain hit his fist to the wall. And then General Haroche breezed through the door, took one look at the mess and got on the Captain’s case.

“How could you mess up like this, Captain Mishnev? That prisoner was our only solid lead, in this case, a high priority!”

“General Haroche… there was nothing we could do,” the Captain’s face was stony as he started recounting the events, but there was a clear trickle of sweat flowing down his hairline; “We had been pushing him hard the last 16 hours, and then he just totally lost it. He started to rave, strain and tug the restraints madly, causing himself injuries. He literally tried to _rip himself apart_. Nothing we could do to calm him worked, and we couldn’t risk losing additional time or allergic reaction for tranquilizers. And at that, he had managed to make enough damage that he started bleeding out, and he had to move him here.”

“It didn’t come to your mind that even stunned or tranquilized, we would lose less time than to have him healing in intense care? No, of course not. You couldn’t make the call when the situation came your way. No time to consider, just a moment of choice – and you chose not choose. That has to be some kind of a record.” Haroche finished his tirade, exhaling loudly. Lifting a hand in stopping motion, “No, don’t defend yourself. That will come later when we review your decisions. Tell me what you got out of him before this monumental screw-up.”

The public dressing down wasn’t very loud, but the way Haroche moved, the way his shoulders were drawn closed with tension and fist were clenched shut… it all signaled a tremendously intense force concentrated on the poor Captain, and even Ivan found it in him to have pity for the man. He would have hated to be in that spot, to have something important in your responsibility and for one reason or another to have things going down to hell… a definite reason for why Ivan had avoided responsibility all his life.

“I… We... managed to confirm that the Cetagandans don’t tap into the information that the device sends in here. Instead, they transmit it forward, all the way to the Eta Ceta for analyzing. Har didn’t know who the middle man is, or how they smuggle it out. Rather, he let out that he has a partner here that is responsible for that part.”

“Any info regarding the partner?”

“No, we had just started–“

“The patient has died at twenty-two thirty-four o’clock from intense blood loss caused by an internal arterial rupture in subclavian section…” The leading Impsec doctor started to rattle off to the recorder in dead calm tone.

For some reason, the official report quieted down the loud chaos in the room.

The click of stopping the recorder echoed loudly in the silence and then the doctor asked from Haroche; “General, do you wish for us to prepare for cryogenical freezing?”

 _They couldn’t possibly mean…_ and suddenly it felt like Ivan had been inserted into a horrendous nightmare, where the most genial looking and calm men were all turned into cold, heartless monsters.

“Yes, and be quick about it. We need the prisoner alive and talking, asap.”

“Very well. Steblev, go fetch the portable freezing unit. Ulanov, the preservation fluid and the pump… ”

The nameless prisoner, whoever he was, had just died out of _torture_. And now he was being prepared for resurrection and medical treatment just so that they could start torturing him _again_?

_And I am here, stuck, waiting for these people to figure out a treatment?_

_I need to get out._

_Now._

_Anywhere would better than this macabre imitation of a hospital…_

Ivan’s pulse was beating fast and sweat was gathering in his brow but then even the scanner set above him started beeping. And then Dr. Weddel, the man currently responsible for his treatment, exclaimed in delight… “Ah, there they are. Very fine tech like reported, and nicely burrowed in… ha! I said I would get this to work!”

The doctor/scientist had been utterly focused on his tasks, not having paid even the slightest attention to the chaos in the room over his numbers, theories and adjustments to the medical scanner...

“What did you find?” Ivan asked in panicky curiosity.

Weddel was immersed to the scanner readings, making quick notes and didn’t even glance at Ivan before answering; “The nanochips. The modified scanner shows the conductors, especially yttrium and scandium, beautifully. Like I suspected, the devices are situated in the brain’s neurotransmitters and take readings from there. Fantastic technology. Definitely, Illyrican make, no one else has this sort of stuff; multiple extremely small devices that work in sync – truly an incredible and groundbreaking concept.”

“But what about my seizure?”

“Oh, that. It’s nothing. Look, these nanochips tap into the electric impulses the neurons send and stimulate them. Your readings are idiosyncratic, and the seizure is caused by an alteration that causes the neurotransmitters to unduly build-up. Nothing fatal nor even harmful, just an overcharge that the brain bleeds of with the seizures. Sort of like a reset.”

“Altercation… reset? You mean it will happen again? How often?”

“Well, yes. That has been suspected for hours. This just confirms it. And regarding how often… not very. During these eleven hours, there has been barely any change in the levels, just a minute rise of few percents. I cannot say for certain, but if there isn’t any change, it means bouts of epileptic activity every few weeks. Truly, it’s nothing.”

That rare…. but that meant, “So I could get out?”

“After we confirm a few more theories, I don’t see any reason to keep you here.”

 

* * *

 

When he had finally retired for the day and sealed himself in the blessed peace in the private apartments, Miles slumped down to the lonely armchair next to the fake windows. It was just a projected holovid for security reasons, but the view of the shimmering city in spring evening’s dusk was rather convincing all the same.

Not soon after, his inner restlessness resurfaced again, but this time, he didn’t have to desperately fight it – no. Now he was free to take off his shoes and start pacing around the bedroom. Gregor’s long legs combined with his own fast-paced steps made a rather dizzying combination, never mind that the room was large enough that no one should feel claustrophobic in it. Somehow he managed it, though. It told everything that at that moment, the only thing he wished from the deepest pits of his heart, was that he could be in small enclosed pace of a jumpship cabin outbound from the Imperium.

_Don’t wish for impossible, boy–_

_Why not?_

_You have a duty._

But right here, right now… he could order anything he wanted. He was the absolute power, anything he wanted was possible; a secret identity, a jumpship passage and who knew, what if the device would deactivate once he was out of the range?

_Don’t fool yourself, it doesn’t work like that boy, and you know it._

This morning, Gregor’s fingernails had been neatly groomed. Had being the key word. Now, they were a lot shorter and Miles was out of any piece of mental strength to try to stop gnawing. His continuing circuit around the bedroom was scuffing a slight trail to the fuzzy carpet, and for some odd reason, he felt like he couldn’t breathe.

Unbuttoning the high collar of the silk dress shirt didn’t help him any, but served only to give him an ugly reminder that it wasn’t his body. Gregor’s neck was longer and his shaky hands didn’t hit the underside of his chin during the frantic effort. And after prying open a few buttons, he saw a chest with a faint trail of dark hair decorating it – unlike Miles’s own scarred mess of a scar on top of a scar. He hadn’t thought that there would be ever a moment when he would actually want to see the ugly piecemeal again, but right now…

What if Impsec couldn’t solve this in time? What had Illyan reported about the devices operating time was, again?

A month?

Good God, what if he had to pretend to be the Emperor for four whole weeks…

Suddenly Gregor’s secured comsole blinked to a life, yet again. A short investigation showed that it was Illyan with yet another of the updates. While technically Illyan wasn’t required to report to him, especially now that the man knew Miles was just posing as the Emperor… it would look supremely odd if the Chief of Impsec suddenly stopped reporting. And maybe, it was just that the old fox did feel obliged to inform him of the things that impinged on Miles, but wasn't particularly sensitive information for the Cetas…

...or Illyan could be just dead tired and working on habit.

A scarily likely theory, as the old man looked like dead on his feet. Sunken eyes, dark smudges surrounding them, chalky skin… no, the chief of Impsec didn’t look any good at all.

The exchange over the comsole was very brief, but it shook Miles’s world to the core when he heard the report of the doctor’s conclusions of the seizures being caused by the nanochips. He barely managed the matter-of-fact tone in his replies and the goodbyes… but the second the connection closed, Miles curled, clutching his mid-drift tight and begun to shake in hysterical relieved laughter. The tears watered his eyes and the moment just stretched and stretched until he just couldn’t laugh anymore.

It was the realization that his betrayal didn’t need to be exposed, ever – he could just sweep it under the rug and forget it. It literally felt like a mountain of stress taken off his shoulders. Like his life had been saved, out of sudden.

_No one needs to know._

_I don’t need to be branded a liar._

 


End file.
